


Reunion

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Chaptered, M/M, Oral Sex, POV John Watson, Reunion Sex, pre series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 14:24:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Previous title was "Always Yours".</p><p>Been edited and republished under the new name.</p><p>Post Reichenbach, fluffy, *little* bit angsty. Written prior to series 3 airing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revelations

“All this time? Two bloody years? And not a word.” Greg Lestrade shook his head and took a sip off his pint of ale, “Hard to believe, innit?”

“Yup.” John Watson’s reply was clipped. He glugged down his own pint in just a few gulps, and raised his finger to the bartender, indicating he wanted another. 

Greg continued shaking his head in disbelief. He bit his bottom lip and gave John a hard stare. “So what now, eh? Where is he? Did he tell you...well, anything? About where he’s been, why, what he’s been doing?”

John started on his, what?, fourth?, yeah, fourth, beer with something approaching desperation. “You didn’t know? He’s at Baker Street. He moved right back in, the first night home in London, right back to Baker Street like he’d never left. I mean, Christ, I never even cleaned out his room.” He shook his head a bit, brow furrowed, lips pressed together, “Fuck, Greg, I never even cleaned out his room! He was dead for two bloody fucking years, and I never.even.cleaned.out.his.room. What does that say about me, eh? Pathetic, is what. Fucking pathetic.”

Greg clapped his hand on John’s shoulder in a comfortingly Greg way. They had grown to be the best of mates during the last 24 months - working cases together, nights at the pub, the occasional fishing trip in the Midlands or down to the coast. It was a normal, proper friendship, and John never had the chance to realize, with Sherlock’s presence always blocking out the rest of the world, what a right wonderful guy Greg really was. With Sherlock gone - dead - John was able to develop a friendship with Greg that just wouldn’t have been possible to do with Sherlock there. And Greg had been the person, the one person, in the beginning, when John was so desperately overcome with grief and just utter paralysis, to be able to lift him up out of that despair, to repurpose him by giving him a job in the crime lab at Scotland Yard, and to remind John that life wasn’t in fact, ALL about Sherlock Holmes. That John could carry on the work, could be purposeful, even without Sherlock at his side. Even if it hadn’t been enough to truly heal the wound left by Sherlock’s absence, it was better than nothing. And Greg had just refused to let John wallow in grief. John gave his friend a half smile and sighed. 

Greg smiled back sympathetically, “John, it’s not pathetic in the least, mate. Seriously. Not a bit.”

“Thanks, Greg. You’re a right bloody good friend, you know that?” John drained his beer, raised his finger again. He intended to get as drunk as it took to make his brain stop functioning on overdrive. He just couldn’t stop THINKING since Sherlock had come back. He couldn’t stop playing The Fall over and over again in his mind’s eye, couldn’t stop wondering about what Sherlock had been doing all this time - mostly murdering people, if John wanted to be honest - and what would happen now. That was what took up most of his thoughts. What the hell happened now? How would they ever be back to what they had been? Who were they to each other now, and what had they been before?

“So. Where’s he been all this time? What was he doing for money? I wasn’t let in on the debriefings, and the news dinnet say anything at all, no details.” Greg popped a few bar nibbles in his mouth and looked at John.

“Well, apparently Mycroft - the fucking prat - was in on the whole thing. The faked death, everything. The whole.bloody.thing. Sherlock’s been off on the continent, running about killing or capturing Moriarty’s people for the last two years, presumably with help from MI5, though of course, he’ll not give me any details. But Mycroft kept in touch, set Sherlock up with housing, food, people, whatever. And they both thought I would be safer if I didn’t know. SAFER. I’m a fucking captain in the Queen’s Army! I’ve saved Sherlock’s life I don’t know how many times, I’ve killed more people than...oh, fucking hell. Safer. Honestly.” John could feel the blood rising in his face, from the anger, from the drink, from the embarrassment of not being trusted enough by Sherlock to be included in this 24 month long game of cat and mouse. He thought Sherlock had thought more of him than that, would have given him more credit. He knew Sherlock thought everyone was an idiot, but he’d always believed himself to be the exception.

“Jesus.” Greg took a few sips of his beer, looking thoughtful. John could tell he was debating saying something. The minutes pressed on with both of them slowly drinking their beers and watching the pub fill up with the normal Friday night crowd. John watched a particularly leggy blonde across the bar order her drink. She caught his eye, grinned, waggled her fingers at him. John turned away. Greg was making little noises to himself, ticking his head to the side occasionally, his mouth in a half smile. John breathed in deeply and waited. This was how Greg got when he was thinking, mulling over information, trying to piece things together. 

Finally John couldn’t take it anymore, “Alright. Out with it, mate.”

Greg ticked his head to the side one last time and turned on his bar stool to face John fully. John’s brow furrowed - this was going to be a serious conversation, judging from the look on Greg’s face - but he remained silent, waiting. 

“Ok, well, did you ever think...oh, I dunno...did you ever think he just couldn’t put you in the line of fire again? I mean, he faked his own death to save you. It was all - all of it - the jump, the hiding, the hunting Moriarty’s people down - for, well, for you, mate.” Greg looked as though he’s just delivered an astounding revelatory statement.

John barked out a laugh, drained his beer, “No, not just me. You, too, Greg. There was a bullet for you and for Mrs. Hudson, too. Remember?”

Greg nodded, “Yeah, but he could have lived without us. It was really you, mate. You’re the one, John. The only person he couldn’t have lived without.”

John gulped a mouthful of ale, swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat. He knew that was true. “But that doesn’t explain why he didn’t let me in on it after. Every other time there’s been a case, a criminal, danger, whatever - we worked it, solved it together. That’s what I just can’t get. Why not this time? Why wasn’t I in on it this time? Why couldn’t he trust me? He’s always trusted me before.”

“Because, I just told you. This was, I think, for Sherlock, an act of...well, an act of love. He was PROTECTING you, in the way only Sherlock knows how to - by being secretive, patronizing, and murderous.” Greg laughed, and paused at the look of consternation on John’s face. He grinned, “ Come on now, John. Dinnit you know that?”

“Know what, exactly?” John’s heart was thrumming in his chest and there was a growing hot feeling in his belly, he didn’t know why. Maybe the drink. He needed to slow down, clear his head. He had the strangest urge to go outside in the cold night air and smoke a cigarette, though he didn’t smoke. His voice took on the edge that it did when he was bossing Sherlock around. “Know.what.”

Greg cleared his throat, a bit nervously, quailing slightly under John’s piercing blue eyed stare. “Well, that Sherlock, you know...loved you. Loves you. Like, you know...like THAT.”

John closed his eyes, breathed out noisily through his nostrils, breath shuddering through his chest. Yes, if he was truthful with himself, of course he knew that. The way Sherlock had always hated John’s girlfriends, how possessive he was of John’s time and attention, the lingering, intense looks that were immediately broken when John met his gaze...of course, Sherlock had been in love with him. And everyone else in the world seemed to know it. Greg, Irene Adler, Mrs. Hudson...Christ, even Moriarty knew. That’s why he had always targeted John, wasn’t it? Because he know John was Sherlock’s pressure point, the only person Sherlock would be willing to compromise himself for. 

John had known, of course. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he had known all along, from the first tongue cluck and wink at the lab, to that last awful moment, eyes locked together from 100 yards away, Sherlock spitting out atrocious lies about himself and John begging him to stop, John knew Sherlock was in love with him. He just had never allowed that thought to expand in his mind, to become real, something that needed to be dealt with. And he had certainly, never for a second, allowed himself to wonder about his own feelings for Sherlock. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. His dreams were where his mind was allowed to wander. Ever since that first night under the same roof at Baker Street, John’s dreams had been filled with Sherlock’s presence, just as his waking life was. But in his dreams, his uncontrollable dreams, there was an awful lot more snogging and shagging and desperate noises and low growled baritone words in his ear than he would ever have allowed himself to think about while conscious. He would often awake from those dreams panting, sweaty, and hard, and have to pull a wank before he went back to sleep. He would never allow himself to actually think about Sherlock while he was wanking himself, but he always knew Sherlock was the reason he was hard in the first place. In the morning, he would do his best to forget about it.

But there was no denying that Sherlock just filled him. He filled all the empty spaces in John. He’d never had a relationship like that, someone who was so different from himself, yet fitted together with him like a missing puzzle piece, closing the gaps in his psyche, reminding him of his purpose, making him feel strong and brave and also vulnerable and protected. There was an unspeakable, an inexplicably deep, bond between them virtually the moment they met - a bond which John had confirmed first, shooting the Study in Pink cabbie without a second thought. Sherlock was in danger. Shoot to kill. Period. 

That night, after, leaving the crime scene, they had giggled and laughed all the way home to Baker Street. Maybe it was just the relief of the whole thing being over, but they laughed so much that night. It was the first proper laugh John had had since Afghanistan. It was the first time he had felt truly happy in ages. They poured brandy, and clinked glasses, congratulating themselves on their intelligence, on their shared success. And something about this absurd, infuriating, completely brilliant man Sherlock Holmes, brought that out in John. Made him happy and fulfilled again, made him feel intelligent and useful. Not only did he have a professional purpose, helping Greg and Sherlock with cases, but he had a personal one, too. Don’t let Sherlock get bored. Don’t let him smoke, take drugs. Make sure he eats. Make sure he laughs. Be his shield against the people like Donovan who call him a freak. Don’t let Sherlock hurt. Ever. 

That had been John’s personal mission, though he hadn’t been able to acknowledge it, until Sherlock was dead. Then, for months, all he could think was that he failed in his mission. Failed to protect Sherlock in the most singularly important moment. Then, Sherlock coming back, John realizing his death had all been a sham, made him burn with embarrassment and anger at all his months of weeping and nightmares, and flashbacks, and seeing Sherlock falling, again and again in his dreams. How dare Sherlock have put him through that?! How dare Sherlock not have trusted him with the truth?! He was so angry with him, yet he couldn’t deny that Sherlock had spent two lonely wandering years doing nothing but making sure John was safe. He felt like he couldn’t rightly be angry about that.

John snapped out of his long reverie, head swimming, somewhat surprised that Greg was still sitting there. John slammed his palm on the bar, “Dammit. Sorry. What was I...? Oh, fuck, I’ve really had way too many. I need to go home, Greg.”

“You sure you don’t want to, you know, talk about this a bit more? I mean to say, you know what you’re going to say when you see him, or you just going to waffle about?” Greg smiled in his very knowing way, and John felt irritated. 

“I’m not going home TO SHERLOCK. Just going home. Where I live. Where I lived even when he wasn’t here. Don’t smirk at me like that, you wanker.”

“Smirk? Me? Not a whit of a smirk on this face, mate. Alright then, I need to go home, too.” Greg grabbed his coat off the coat rack at the end of the bar, and tossed John his. 

John missed catching the coat and it crumpled to the floor in front of him. He laughed at himself, ‘Fuck, I really am bugger all drunk, aren’t I?”

Greg laughed, too, “You’ll be okay walking home?”

John waved him off, “Of course, Greg, don’t be daft. I’ll see you at work on Monday.”

They parted outside the bar, John still shrugging his coat on with no small amount of effort. There was a gentle snow falling. Greg turned suddenly about halfway down the street, “Oi! John!”

John turned. “What?”

“Just, just whatever happens...you know, with you and Sherlock...I’ve got your back, mate. Whatever happens.” Greg smiled crookedly and waved, turned and began ambling away, the lazy snow drifting down on his head in the lamplight.

John felt a ridiculous rush of affection for him, and wanted to sweep him up in a bear hug, but he was too far away now, and John was far too drunk to run down the street, so he settled for yelling. “Oi! Greg! You’re a right good mate. I don’t deserve it.”

Greg didn’t even turn around, just threw his hand up and yelled, “Yes you do! Now go home and talk to your bloke!” 

My bloke. My bloke. John tumbled the words around in his mind as he walked away from the pub, boots sliding through fresh snow on the pavement. Yeah, Sherlock has always been mine, John thought, since the moment we met. Mine. And I his. Both of us ready to die for each other, to kill for each other. Ready to die together beside that pool. And every girlfriend, every attempt at a normal relationship, they had all failed since he met Sherlock. Because none of them could even begin to compare with whatever he had with Sherlock. It was so much deeper than attraction, it transcended the bounds of normal relationships. And this sodding silly drunken conversation with Greg, it had just blown the lid off of all these feelings, all these acknowledgements about himself and Sherlock and their relationship. Feelings that John had kept simmering under the surface for years. John felt like his blood was boiling in his veins.

Of course John and Sherlock belonged to each other. It seemed so fuck all obvious now. It wasn’t even a matter of love, or attraction. It wasn’t about being gay, or not being gay. That hardly mattered. It was simply the way the universe worked. The earth moved around the sun, the seasons changed, and John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were inextricably bound to each other, forever. There was simply no other way, and, John could see now, could acknowledge now, there never had been. The first moment John had handed Sherlock his phone, and their fingers met, John felt that electric charge between them, and they had belonged to each other. John had just wasted almost five years denying it. 

By the time John reached the front door of Baker Street, he was completely sober, and his heart was pounding out of his chest. He could barely process all the thoughts that were scrambling around in his brain. He had to sit down. He sat on the stoop, leaned his back up against the wooden door, and looked up at the sky. What was he going to say, to do, when he went inside? He and Sherlock had barely spoken since the first night he’d been back, eight days before.

That very first night, John shaking and crying with shock and joy and not a small amount of anger, they had sat by the fireplace, drinking and talking until the sun rose. Sherlock had told John everything - or at least John hoped he had told him everything - about the whys and hows of what had happened over the last two years. Moriarty’s plan to kill John, and Greg, and Mrs Hudson, Sherlock faking his death with the help of Molly Hooper and Mycroft, then a two year crusade across Europe, tracking down all of Moriarty’s helpers until they were all was safe at last, and Sherlock could come home. John remembered sitting there by the fireplace, in the deep hours of the morning, watching all the shadows play across the hollow places in Sherlock’s face as he told his story - their story - and being in a state of utter wonderment that Sherlock was really sitting there, solid and breathing and not dead. Sherlock, of course, acted like the whole thing was about as exciting as a trip to Tesco’s, couldn’t understand John’s turmoil. 

Since that night, John had been struggling with his feelings about it all, while still heading to Scotland Yard every day for work, and just barreling through, as he always did. He was furious with Mycroft, of course, but then, he was usually furious with Mycroft. He could hardly be angry at Molly - she was so kind, and she would do anything for Sherlock, and John couldn’t fault her for that, since he knew that particular weakness all too well.

And his feelings toward Sherlock were a complete jumble. He was angry and desperately joyful, and not a small bit scared of what came next. And he hadn’t had the chance to really deal with any of it. Sherlock hadn’t been home much, honestly. He had press conferences and debriefings and meetings with everyone from the Home Secretary to the Queen herself. He and Mycroft had spent the last week letting the public in on what they had known for two years, that Moriarty was completely real, and that Sherlock was neither a criminal nor actually dead. Thus, John had barely seen Sherlock enough to be able to be mad at him. Their reunion had been strangely anti-climactic.

But now, with the revelations of the night making his chest tight and his belly hot, John knew he HAD to talk to Sherlock. Had to lay all this bare, and see where it took them. Had to…

OOF. John fell backwards into space and found himself lying flat on the floor of the stairwell, staring up into Sherlock’s rather amused face peering down at him. “John. What on earth are you doing? I’ve been watching you from the window for the last 20 minutes. Did you forget your key? Why didn’t you ring?”

John struggled to his feet. ‘I, no, I didn’t forget my key. I was thinking.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him. “About?”

“About what? Oh. I, uh, just things. I, look, Sherlock. I think we need to talk.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted it. He truly had no idea what he was going to say, and he was tired and cold, and now wishing he could just go to bed and forget about this until morning. He didn’t want to fuck this up. Goddammit, he could NOT fuck this up. 

“Yes, of course we do.” Sherlock swept calmly up the steps two at a time. “Tea?”

‘Uh, sure. You making it?” John followed Sherlock up the steps, and sank heavily into the leather chair facing the television.

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock floated about the kitchen, with that otherworldly quality he sometimes had, clinking teapot lids and rattling the kettle under the tap. John watched him, as he hadn’t been able to in over two years. He never really allowed himself to watch Sherlock before he left, not closely anyway. It was always furtive, not even acknowledged to himself. But now, understanding that this was just how it was, that they were a THEM, and could never be anything else, John allowed himself to really watch Sherlock. 

And my god, he was beautiful. John felt a heat growing as he watched Sherlock’s oddly long fingered hands pouring the water from the kettle, swirling the teabags around in the pot, clinking the lid shut. He had an unbidden image of one of those pale fingers trailing down his neck to his shirt buttons, and he shifted in his seat and took a deep calming breath. What was happening to him? He was like a volcano erupting, after years of seeming dormancy, but in truth, building, quietly and secretly building to the moment when it explodes. That’s how his feelings were for Sherlock were. They were overtaking him, as he had never allowed them to before, and they were just like hot lava - destructive, uncontrollable, and beautiful. 

Sherlock walked out of the kitchen, tea tray balanced across his arms, and set it on the table next to the laptop behind John’s shoulder. “So.” Sherlock pressed his finger to the top of the teapot to keep the lid on, and poured. “What do you want to talk about, John?”

John. There was something about the way Sherlock said - had always said - his name, that made it so much less plain, so much more important. Sherlock got his mouth, the sound of his voice, around the word the way no one had ever done before. None of John’s many girlfriends had ever said his name that way, not even in bed, not even when John was making them moan and writhe and scream his name. No. The way Sherlock said it, it was as if he had invented John’s name, and it belonged to no one but him. John felt himself getting more and more aroused, his face growing warm. Dammit to bloody hell, they were having TEA. He was getting hard from Sherlock pouring TEA. This was absurd. 

He swallowed. “Us. I want to talk about us. I don’t want to talk about what happened while you were away, or any of that bloody mess. I don’t want to fight. I want to know, I mean, I want...who am I to you, Sherlock?” This wasn’t at all what he’d wanted to say. Dammit, it was going all wrong. He was just so bubbling over with emotion, he couldn’t organize his thoughts.

Sherlock crooked one side of his mouth up and looked at John out of the side of his eyes. “You’re John, obviously. Who else would you be?”

“Ok, WHAT, then. What am I to you? For five years, I don’t think I’ve ever known. And I want to know now. I want you to tell me what I mean to you, Sherlock. And don’t diddle me around.” He slammed his hand on the chair arm, more angry than he probably had a right to be at the moment. Bollocks, this really wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The last thing he wanted to do was yell at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised both eyebrows at that. He tilted his head to the side and gave John one of those long, appraising, burning stares. Could he see how John’s pupils were dilated, how his face was flushed, his breathing quickening? Of course he could, he was Sherlock. He could have seen those things from space. John knew that Sherlock knew that he was both angry and aroused, yet as embarrassed as he felt, he also knew he would not back down. He looked Sherlock square in the eyes. 

Sherlock leaned over, putting his hands on the armrests of the chair, and leaned forward until John could feel his breath and the heat from his body. The buttons of his shirt, as always, were pulled taut. A thick lock of brown curls drifted over his forehead, and he looked up at John from under heavy lidded eyes. John swallowed, hard, at the look in those eyes. It was pure heat. Liquid, hot desire. Oh, Christ. John breathed out, feeling his pants tighten around a growing erection. He felt terrified to move, like any interruption would break the spell.

Sherlock lowered himself to the floor in front of John and parted his knees, insinuating himself between them, pressing his thin frame up against the soft insides of John’s thighs, his arms still caging John in the chair. His eyes never for one second left John’s. John couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His cheeks were on fire, he could feel how hot his ears were. Sherlock was so goddamned beautiful, and John still couldn’t believe he was real. Sherlock, his Sherlock, back from the dead, breathing, moving, kneeling on the floor, looking at him with an unconcealed desire that sent John’s pulse racing.

Neither of them had spoken in over ten minutes. They were just staring at each other, John’s blue eyes locked onto Sherlock’s currently golden green ones. The tea was going cold. John hardly dared to breathe. He tried to drink Sherlock in with his eyes - the tousled curls, the bright brilliant eyes, a million different colours at once. He noticed now that Sherlock’s lips were redder than the usual pale pink, and his breath had quickened. John could hardly tear his eyes away from those lips, so moist, red, full, slightly parted. Oh god, he wanted to kiss him, had wanted to for so long without even knowing it. And now that he knew it, could admit it, he was aching to feel their lips pressed together. But he waited. Waited for Sherlock to answer him. John would not back down.

Finally, Sherlock licked his lips quickly, tongue darting out like a cat’s, and broke the silence. “John. You are everything to me. You are the only - the ONLY - person that I have ever loved. You are the only person who makes me laugh. You are the only person who makes me feel...things. You are the only person I’ve ever met that I don’t find odiously stupid or boring. You are the only person. The only person who matters. You’re like...you are the sun to me. I revolve around you.”

John laughed then, because Sherlock was purposefully harkening back to their conversations about Sherlock deleting the knowledge of the solar system from his mind. He was trying to show John how he remembered that moment, how what John said had mattered. When John laughed, Sherlock smiled, and then his eyes crinkled up and he laughed too, that surprisingly warm, hearty laugh he had. It was the first time they had laughed together since Sherlock had come home. Sherlock tentatively lowered one hand to John’s, and twisted their fingers together - Sherlock’s long, pale ones, and John’s short, strong ones. Sherlock looked at their hands entwined, and then up to look into John’s eyes again, and the look on his face was so open, so innocent, John could barely stand it. It made his heart hurt. 

Without even thinking about it, John lunged forward and slid his right hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, tangling his fingers in the surprisingly slightly sweaty curls, and drew his face in. As their lips pressed together, Sherlock made a noise like a moan and a sigh at the same time, and leaned into John, his long arms encircling his back and sliding up his shoulder blades. John felt dizzy from the emotions coursing through him. He was KISSING Sherlock. He could barely understand what was happening. He was so incredibly turned on, and yet somehow, he also felt like he wanted to cry, or laugh out loud. 

Instead, he parted Sherlock’s lips with the tip of his tongue, and tilted his head to the side, so they could kiss more deeply without noses getting in the way. Sherlock was kissing him back, licking John’s tongue, nibbling his bottom lip. John broke the kiss, twisted his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and pulled his head back, exposing the soft skin on his neck. Sherlock moaned, his fingertips scraping at John’s back, his chest pressing closer into John’s, as John kissed his neck from his jaw to his collarbone, breathing in the spicy scent of him. Sherlock was shivering.

“John.” Sherlock growled, his voice deeper and huskier than John had ever dreamed it could be. John opened his eyes and saw the violet flush creeping up Sherlock’s neck. John felt his erection straining at his pants. Oh Christ, it was such a turn on that he could do this to Sherlock. Sherlock who never lost control, was letting John make him lose control, WANTED John to make him lose control. Because this - this, right now, was how they were - they were only for each other. Sherlock’s body, his arousal, his skin, his pulse - it was only for John. Only John could do this to him.

“Mine. You are mine. You hear me, Sherlock?” John bit the incredibly soft skin where Sherlock’s neck and collarbone met, at the same time twisting his fingers tighter in Sherlock’s hair and tugging slightly. Sherlock cried out, clutching at John’s shirt, pressing into him until there was no space between them at all, bodies melding into each other, Sherlock’s face rammed into John’s neck, pressing his nose up against him. 

He murmured against John’s skin, “Yes, John, yes. I’ve always been. Completely yours. Since the first moment I saw you.” Sherlock was breathless now, and his skin was on fire, radiating heat. John pulled back and looked at him. His lips were puffy from rough kissing, his skin scraped from John’s stubble, hair a mess, and his eyes, oh, his eyes were so soft and open, and yearning - completely devoid of their normal imperious coldness. John was so turned on, he could hardly stand it. He drew his thumb over that pouting bottom lip of Sherlock’s, and Sherlock turned his head so he could take John’s thumb into his mouth, running the tip of his tongue along it. Watching Sherlock lick his thumb as though it were the most sensual thing in the world, John just couldn’t sit anymore. He pushed up from the chair, drawing Sherlock up with him by his shirt.

He began unbuttoning those strained buttons. Sherlock was nuzzling John’s ear, breath uneven and stuttering. He touched his lips to John’s ear, ever so gently, and John choked out a half moan, half shout and bucked his hips into Sherlock’s. He felt Sherlock grinning at his ear, and he turned his face into Sherlock’s neck, while still working the buttons undone. “My god, you turn me on like no one, ever, ever has, Sherlock. I’ve never felt anything like this...I can’t believe it took me so long. You are mine. Mine, and I am yours - just the two of us against the world.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck even more to John’s mouth, and ran his hands up John’s side, untucking his shirt from his pants. He slipped his hands under John’s shirt, pressing his warm dry palms against John’s belly and running them up his chest, “Yes, John, of course. Yes. It’s always been only us.” 

John dragged his lips across Sherlock’s neck, opened his mouth and sucked on Sherlock’s skin right under his jaw, pulling it into his mouth just the slightest bit, drawing the blood up to the surface. He had never felt so possessive of someone he was involved with. Sherlock was his, and he was going to mark him. He left a dark red mark on Sherlock’s pale neck, right below his jaw, the sight of which made his erection jump and his breath catch. He grabbed the right side of Sherlock’s head with his left hand, and pulled him closer, licked at his neck with a flat tongue. He was so pliable under John’s hands, so willing. So un-Sherlockian. John licked all the way down to Sherlock’s collarbone and then across the length of it. Sherlock moaned, deep and resonant, his hands slipping down John’s back and playing with the waistband of his trousers. 

“John. Take me to bed, John. I’ve waited so long for this. For you. I don’t want to wait any longer.” His voice was deep velvet, draping over John’s entire body, enveloping him, smothering him in emotion as only Sherlock had the ability to do. John had never loved anyone like this. It was intoxicating. He felt drunk with desire. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingers sliding over Sherlock’s ribs, and Sherlock responded by trailing his fingers languidly down John’s bare back, inside his shirt, and sighing deeply in John’s ear. His lips brushed over John’s ear again as he allowed his hands to drift down over John’s arse.

John felt goose pimples rising up over his entire body, and suddenly, they both had far too many clothes on. He ripped at the last few buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, pushed it off of him roughly, yanking it off his arms and dropping it to the floor. Then he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and drew it up over his head as quickly as he could and threw it. Breathing hard through his nose, he looked up at Sherlock and the raw want on his face rendered John nearly wild with desire. He grabbed Sherlock by the hips and pushed his thumbs into the hollows of his pelvic bone, pulling Sherlock’s groin towards his own. “I want you, Sherlock. I want you right now.”

Sherlock eyes went wide, his mouth falling slightly open, and he leaned forward to kiss and nibble at John’s neck, hands scrabbling through John’s short hair, pulling it rather hard, and whispered roughly, “John, just show me what you want, and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything you want.”

John groaned, his skin burning with arousal, his cock so hard it almost hurt. “Oh god, Sherlock, ah fuck, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

Sherlock stopped kissing John’s neck, pulled back, and looked at him, a wicked smile playing on his lips, “Yes I do, John. I know precisely what I’m doing to you.”

“Alright, that’s it. Get in the bedroom. Now.” John grabbed Sherlock by the waist, propelling him across the floor, past the mess of beakers and books and bottles Sherlock had already begun accumulating in 221B after only days of being back. 

John pushed Sherlock onto the bed, where he lay back on his elbows, looking at John in that appraising, dissecting way that only Sherlock could. His eyes were now blue and bright and almost translucent. “You are the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, John. I can’t even find the words for you. Look at you.” He trailed his fingers down John’s chest, over the surprisingly taut muscles of John’s stomach, taking in every millimeter of his body, memorizing it, worshipful, “You changed everything for me. Everything. Everything.”

John smiled, feeling so happy he thought his chest might just burst open with the pressure of it, and ran his hands up Sherlock’s thighs on either side of him, rubbing small circles on them with his thumbs, “And you me, Sherlock. And you me. Twice.”

Sherlock chuckled, and so did John. This was all so ridiculous and beautiful. Sherlock reached up and pulled John down on top of him, and John could feel just how hard Sherlock was, too. He ground his hips into Sherlock’s, aching with need, shivers running up his spine. Nothing he had ever done in bed with any of his girlfriends even compared to this, this one moment with Sherlock. And then Sherlock was kissing him again, his tongue sliding between John’s lips, swirling over his tongue, tracing patterns, his teeth nibbling at John’s lips and down his jawline, and his warm hands were all over John’s chest and back, and then finally down to John’s arse, pressing into him, pushing them impossibly close together.

“Pants off, now.” John knelt on the bed, putting his legs on the outside of Sherlock’s, and began undoing his own belt. He fumbled with the buckle, watching Sherlock writhe beneath him, every sinewy muscle of his chest on display, his pale skin mottled and flushed with arousal, the love bite John had left on his neck a deep searing red. Oh, god, oh fuck, he wanted to be inside him. He wanted to take him, make Sherlock John’s as he hadn’t yet been. The feelings inside John were explosive, he felt like his bones were bursting through his skin, like he was coming apart. His skin felt impossibly tight around his muscles.

“I love you, Sherlock. I love you so fucking much. I love you I love you I love you,’ John dissolved into saying it over and over and over as he fell on his back on the bed, desperately trying to pull his pants off with trembling fingers, and Sherlock rolled over to him, kissing with wet lips every part of John’s bare skin that he could reach. He was crouched over John, dragging his lips over his stomach. John dropped his right hand onto Sherlock’s head, into that wonderfully soft, thick mass of curls, and finally got his pants pushed off with his left hand.

And then Sherlock was kissing down, down, his hands slithering down to John’s bare hips, digging his fingers into John’s shivering skin, and as he moved down, John’s cock made contact finally with Sherlock’s skin, sliding between Sherlock’s shoulder and his cheek, and John cried out, rutting up, a hot shudder of arousal ripping down his spine. Sherlock held John down to the bed, and began licking his thighs, his belly, tonguing into the hollows of his hips. Sherlock’s tongue was so hot, his teeth nipping at John’s hip bones and legs. John could barely contain himself - he felt like his was going to come before Sherlock even really touched his cock.

“Ah, fuck, Sherlock, that’s brilliant, I’m going to...I can’t last…” And at those words, Sherlock finally grabbed John’s cock around the base and sank his beautiful mouth down onto the entire length of it. John practically howled with pleasure, his entire body tingling. He could barely hold it back, feeling Sherlock’s hot mouth around him, his hands in Sherlock’s soft hair, and then Sherlock was licking the underside of his cock with a tense, flat tongue, and he knew he was going to come in seconds. His hips arched up, but Sherlock stayed with it, licking and bobbing his head up and down under John’s hands. 

“No, Sherlock, stop, I don’t want to come right now...wait…” John rather reluctantly pushed at Sherlock’s head until he sat up, his mouth puffy and moist, and looking disappointed. 

“What’s wrong, John? Not good?” Sherlock looked as if he would be completely crushed if John said it wasn’t good. John wondered now for the first time since they’d kissed if this was the first time Sherlock had done any of this. He certainly seemed experienced enough, but the way he was looking at John now...a mixture of embarrassment and expectation, John wasn’t so sure. 

“Christ, no, love, it’s bloody.fucking.brilliant. It’s just…” John drew Sherlock back up the bed until they were face to face again. He kissed him gently, tenderly on the mouth, and then slid his hand down and began undoing Sherlock’s pants. Sherlock just looked at him, pupils blown so wide his eyes were practically black, and ran a hand up John’s chest and his neck, until it laid over the side of John’s face, and he silently rubbed his thumb over John’s lips. John pursed his lips and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s thumb as he finally got his pants undone, and pushed them off Sherlock’s legs.

He scooted forward until their bodies were completely pressed together, their erections slipping against each other, hot and slick and gorgeous. John kissed him again, then dragged his mouth from Sherlock’s lips, across his jaw, to his earlobe, and whispered, ‘It’s just, I want to come inside you.”

Sherlock moaned and ground his pelvis forward at John’s words, and buried his face in John’s neck, licking and kissing and breathing hard, “Yes, John. I want that, too. I want you inside me.” His voice was deeper than John had ever heard it, husky and dark with desire. His long white fingers were sliding rhythmically up and down John’s side, over his hip, his thigh, scratching John’s skin with his nails, increasingly frantic.

John could see how much his talking was turning Sherlock on, and he wanted to watch it, wanted to see this effect he had on Sherlock. He knew somehow that he was the only person in the world that could have done this to Sherlock, and that made him feel nearly faint with desire. “I want to be inside you, to become part of you. I want to watch you come with me inside you. I want to feel it. I want to mark you, make you mine. You’re mine, you’ve always been. I want you so badly. Christ, I always have, I really always have...” He was sort of rambling now, but he couldn’t stop. It was all true. And now Sherlock was making desperate noises, moaning and breathing fast and shallow, his hands twisted in the sheets, and he was writhing under John’s hands, and his head was thrown back, his eyes wide and his mouth making little O shapes, and John had never seen anything so amazing or beautiful in his entire life.

“Christ, Sherlock. Christ, look at you, you bloody gorgeous thing.” John pushed Sherlock flat on his back, and straddled him, brushed the back of his knuckles across one of those incredible cheekbones. Sherlock twisted and squirmed and arched his pelvis between John’s legs, desperate for more contact. John leaned down, pushing Sherlock’s hands above his head and holding them there, and he brushed his lips as gently as possible up Sherlock’s neck and onto his earlobe. Sherlock moaned and pushed up at John’s hands, trying to break free, but John held him fast. He licked round the edge of Sherlock’s ear, sending Sherlock into a cascade of panting and little soft growls, and Sherlock was bucking his hips up off the bed into John’s hips, his cock jumping into John’s belly. John put his lips to Sherlock’s ear, hands on Sherlock’s wrists, still holding him down tight, and whispered, “I am going to make you come so hard you’re going to forget your own fucking name, Sherlock Holmes.”

John had never talked to someone this way in bed before, but this was Sherlock, who never lost control of himself, who never let anyone see him squirm or be vulnerable. And John had him trembling with desire, Sherlock’s whole body was shaking, he was falling to pieces under John’s hands, between his legs, and John had never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. 

“Yes, John, yes. Now, now, I can’t wait any longer,” Sherlock looked completely debauched already, his whole body flush with desire, unable to keep still for even a second, twisting his body beneath John, desperately trying to free his hands from John’s grasp so he could put his hands on John. John had never seen Sherlock so completely out of control of his body, his emotions, and it had an intoxicating effect on John, and suddenly, he couldn’t wait any longer either. 

He let Sherlock’s quivering hands free, sat up and fumbled in Sherlock’s bedside drawer. Somewhat surprisingly, there was a bottle of lube in it (he’d have to tease Sherlock about it later), which he grabbed and squeezed a good amount onto his own cock, and his hands. He didn’t really know the mechanics of this, but he knew there would be a lot of friction. Sherlock was laying underneath him, watching him with his now black eyes, and then he began stroking John, up his legs first and then wrapping his long fingers around his cock. 

The feeling was so intense, John jerked forward with a guttural yell and fell back over top of Sherlock, and then Sherlock was kissing him, desperately, his one hand pressing against the back of John’s head, pushing John closer to him, his tongue swirling in John’s mouth, his lips impossibly hot and soft, and he was stroking him with the other hand, his movements becoming faster and faster. 

John felt himself getting close, so close to the edge. He was light-headed and dizzy. He couldn’t stop himself rocking his hips up into Sherlock’s hand, supporting himself on his elbows, his forehead tucked into the pillow beside Sherlock’s head, with Sherlock’s hot breath and lips and tongue all over his face and his neck, and just as he was about to let go, Sherlock slowed his hand, and let his lips wander over to John’s ear, murmuring, his voice now impossibly deep “How do you want me, John?”

Just hearing Sherlock say those words nearly made him come, but he swallowed it back, struggled backwards, trailing his tongue down Sherlock’s chest as he did so, and sat up, kneeling. “Just like this, love. Just as you are.” He grabbed Sherlock’s legs and hooked them over his shoulders, watching Sherlock’s face fill with anticipation as he did so, and John’s arousal spiked. He had to be inside him now, to own him, to claim him. He squeezed more lube into his hand and rubbed it over himself, and over Sherlock, and moved forward gently. The tip of his cock touched Sherlock’s bum, and they cried out together from the overwhelming sensation of it. Christ, how long had they both been waiting for this moment? 

“Sherlock, if it hurts, if it’s too much, you tell me, okay?” John had to remember his first rule, which was never to let Sherlock hurt, especially at his own hands. 

Sherlock shook his head, eyes closed, lips wet and swollen, “No John, no, it won’t be too much, just, I need you now. I need you.” 

“Ah, fuck, Sherlock, yes you do,” John breathed out heavily and put his hands on Sherlock’s hips, rocked forward and felt the head of his cock pressing into Sherlock. He went slow, even though he was desperate with want. He’d never done this before, and he had no idea what was too hard or too fast. But Sherlock wiggled down, pushing John farther inside, moving towards John with his bum, and he gave John an almost imperceptible nod, giving permission. John finally let himself go. He grabbed the tops of Sherlock’s thighs with his hands, and rocked forward, plunging hard and fast inside Sherlock, the sensation of it washing over him so strongly, he thought he might pass out. He cried out, loudly, and had a brief moment of wondering if Mrs. Hudson could hear them.

He looked down at Sherlock, whose hands were twisted so tightly in the sheets that he’d pulled them off the corners of the bed. His head was whipping from side to side frantically as John found his rhythm, rolling his hips forward and pushing deeper into Sherlock with each movement. He’d never felt anything like this, he’d never had sex so intense in his life. He half wanted to cry with the beauty and the fragility of it, but then suddenly Sherlock was screaming his name, over and over, “John John John!” and his hands went from the sheets to a vice grip on John’s rocking hips, and John couldn’t even think anymore. 

He was nothing but sensation. The feeling of Sherlock, tight and hot around his cock, the wonderful pain of Sherlock’s fingers digging into his skin, the look of wonder on Sherlock’s beautiful face, and he couldn’t hold on anymore. “Ah fuck Sherlock, fuck yes, yes, oh god,” He turned his head and bit into the soft flesh inside and just above Sherlock’s knee as he came, white hot stars popping behind his eyelids, his whole body trembling, and he fell forward onto Sherlock. And then John felt Sherlock stiffening beneath him, and he raised his head so he could watch Sherlock’s face as he came, hot and thick streaming between their pressed together bellies. Sherlock was the most beautiful he had ever been, his mouth open but no sound coming out, his neck muscles taut, tendons standing out, his cheeks hollow and smooth and the violet flush under his skin got darker and darker until he looked like he was glowing from the inside out.

John let his own head drop forward, forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “I love you. You’re beautiful and brilliant and I love you.” Sherlock couldn’t speak, so he just turned his faced into John’s hair, breathing in the smell of his shampoo and his sweat, and kissed the top of his head. 

John rolled off of Sherlock, sticky and hot and sweating and gasping for breath, and flopped on his back next to him. To John’s immense surprise, Sherlock rolled toward him and curled up at John’s side like a contented cat, stretching his arm across John’s chest and looping one long slim leg over John’s rather shorter one. John drew Sherlock to him and Sherlock’s face went into John’s neck, nuzzling and sighing. John took hold of the hand Sherlock had draped across him and tangled his fingers up with Sherlock’s, squeezing gently. Sherlock squeezed back. 

Soon, John felt sleep overtaking him and he let it. This night had been so overwhelming, he had no ability to process it right now. He just wanted to be like this forever, half-asleep, feeling drugged from oxytocin, Sherlock pressed to his side, naked and warm and soft. It was the happiest, the most fulfilled, John had ever been in his life.


	2. The First Case, after

Rain pattered against the window. John woke up from a deep comfortable sleep, momentarily completely disoriented, and laid stock still for a moment, listening to the rain running down the window. Down Sherlock’s window. Down Sherlock’s bedroom window. Oh. Right. Without opening his eyes, John grinned and rolled over to reach for Sherlock, but grasped nothing but rumpled cold sheets. He opened his eyes and looked around the room, which was immensely brighter than he expected it to be. He glanced at the clock on the bedside table - 10:13am. 

Well, no wonder he was alone. Sherlock barely slept anyway - he certainly wouldn’t be lounging in bed at 10 in the morning. John stretched and rolled onto his rather gummy stomach, grinning like a complete fool, he knew, at remembering the events of the night before. The sheets smelled like Sherlock: musky and spicy and sweaty. He pressed his nose to them and breathed deeply, already feeling a tingling in his groin at the scent coupled with the memory of Sherlock’s gasping little noises and the sound of him calling John’s name over and over. 

He laid there a bit longer, breathing in the combined smells of Sherlock and sex, replaying his favorite details from the night before in his mind’s eye for a while, and finally stretched and rolled out of Sherlock’s bed, pulling the top sheet around his shoulders and padding out into the kitchen sleepily. 

There was Sherlock, eyes pressed to his microscope, one thick curl hanging in the middle of his forehead, lips pressed together, concentrating. He hadn’t even heard John come in. John smiled. Nothing had really changed last night. Sherlock was still going to be Sherlock - often inscrutable, infuriating, sometimes cold and mean without intending to be. And John was still going to be John - quick tempered, fierce, funny, and protecting and loving Sherlock with every molecule in his body. They had always been a couple anyway, though John hadn’t been able to recognize it, acknowledge it, until his talk with Greg last night. This was just how things were supposed to be - the way they had always been anyway. 

Sherlock raised his face from the microscope to look at John standing there in the doorway, and John caught a glimpse of the love bite under his jaw, even darker than it had been last night, a savage purple colour. John felt a warmness suffusing through his chest, as if flowing directly from his heart. There it was. Proof that Sherlock belonged to John, and was for no one else, not ever again. The thought made him glow with contentment.

Sherlock was still holding the sides of the microscope with both hands, but his lips had ticked up into a half smile. “Ah, he rises. I would have come in to check your pulse in another hour, John.”

John laughed, and shuffled closer to the table, tugging the sheet tighter around his bare shoulders, “Ta, Sherlock, I appreciate the concern. What are you working on? You can’t possibly have a case yet - you’ve barely been home a week.”

“Actually, I do. Lestrade called this morning, early. Two bodies found strung up INSIDE The Globe, dressed in Shakespearean garb from the theater’s stock wardrobe, cause of death completely unknown. They were totally unmarked, apart from being dead. Lestrade said he thought I might be...bored..” Sherlock smiled that everyone’s-an-idiot-but-me smile, and templed his hands together under his nose. “Also, he’s entirely out of his depth. So, he sent over some fingerprints, samples from the scene, that sort of thing. I’ll have to go to The Globe today, of course.”

“Need any help?” John tottered over to the sink, one hand fisted in the sheet, holding it around himself, and began filling the coffeepot with water. Of course Sherlock hadn’t eaten breakfast or had anything to drink, just started working. John smiled to himself. He thought from now on, probably every little idiosyncrasy of Sherlock’s - and there were quite a lot - would make him smile like that: secretive and proud. He thought of Greg’s words last night: your bloke. My Sherlock. My bloke. Just thinking it, John felt a happy little shiver go through his belly. It was lovely to be able to acknowledge all these feelings he’d had for...well...years, if he was honest.

“From you?” Sherlock looked at him, tucking his chin backwards with an incredulous expression on his face, and cocked one eyebrow up, “Always.”

John clanked the coffeepot down on the counter and turned around, putting his arms around Sherlock’s waist. God, this felt like the most natural thing in the world - why on earth had he resisted this for so many years? This was brilliant. Sherlock stared down at him - even seated on a stool, he was a bit taller than John - and gave John a once over, eyes narrowed, “No regrets, Dr. Watson?”

John furrowed his brow, rolled his eyes, and slid one hand up to cup Sherlock’s face. He rubbed his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone and shook his head, “Are you mental? No regrets, Sherlock. Not one. I love you even more today than I did before, if that’s even possible.”

Sherlock let out the breath he’d been holding and nodded curtly, face still in John’s hand, “Good. Nor I.” His face closed up a bit, and he withdrew from John, pushed his hand down, turned away. He was retreating from this, from this emotional, hard thing they were doing together. Of course he was. Sherlock didn’t do sentiment, and what happened last night was almost nothing but.

This wouldn’t do. “Hey. Hey, love,” John said softly as Sherlock turned back to his microscope, “Come here. Come here, you.”

John refused to let Sherlock spin away from him. He gently pulled face down to his own, and pressed his lips to Sherlock’s. He kissed him gently, tenderly, trying to convey through the kiss all the feelings of love and happiness that were filling up John’s whole body right now. Sherlock’s response was restrained, neck stiff and upright, lips a bit tight. John pulled back, put either hand on the sides of Sherlock’s head, and looked him steadily in the eye. He let the sheet slip off his shoulders in to the floor, and stood before Sherlock naked, exposed, honest. 

“Listen to me, Sherlock. I.love.you. I love you just as you are. I always have. Now it’s just out in the open. Now we can do this,” John leaned forward, settling himself between Sherlock’s legs, as Sherlock had done to him last night, and kissed Sherlock again, softly and deeply, licking Sherlock’s lips, running his hands down his neck and shoulders, and sliding his arms around Sherlock’s waist again. John broke the kiss and touched his lips to the love bite on Sherlock’s neck, “Which is fucking brilliant, I think.”

John felt Sherlock’s body relaxing in his arms. He finally put his arms around John, too, and laid his head on John’s shoulder, the tip of his nose touching John’s neck. “I’m sorry, John. I’m not...I’m not good at being good to people. I don’t want to..to ruin us. Just when we’ve...come back together.”

“Ah, you’ve always been good to me,” John squeezed Sherlock to him. He was so vulnerable sometimes, so fragile. It was part of what drew John to him so powerfully. John was a natural caretaker; it was why he’d become a doctor in the first place. And no one John had ever known needed taking care of more than Sherlock.

“I absolutely have not. I tried to poison your coffee. I used you like a lab rat. I lied to you all the time. I read your emails and spied on you and was hateful to your girlfriends. I make you furious.” Sherlock leaned back and looked at John, his beautiful eyes a coppery blue, looking unsure and nervous, and very un-Sherlock-like. Which made John feel special and honored, because these looks, these moments of fragility and honesty, John was the only person allowed to see these parts of Sherlock. He knew Sherlock had never allowed someone to truly see him so laid bare before.

John laughed, “Right, okay. That’s all bloody true. Point taken. But you know what, Sherlock? I loved you anyway, despite all that. And I love you still, I love you fucking fiercely and ridiculously, and that’s not going to change.” He kissed Sherlock again, savagely, winding his hand up into Sherlock’s hair, and bit his bottom lip hard as he pulled away, causing Sherlock to give a startled little cry. 

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, incredulously, as if he couldn’t believe John had bitten him. Then he smiled, his tongue touching where John had bitten his lip, and his eyes ran up and down John’s body. He leaned forward and licked John’s earlobe, causing a shudder of pleasure to run down John’s entire body. Sherlock’s deep voice rumbled into John’s ear, “You just wait until later, Dr. Watson. Later.”

John, now covered in goose pimples and half hard, breathed out through his nose, and stepped away from Sherlock, towards the sink. He didn’t bother to put the sheet back around himself. “Now. Let’s make some coffee and have a fry up, and get to work on this case. I’m going to take a shower, and I’ll come back and put the bacon on.” John sauntered out of the kitchen, feeling like he was walking on air, just completely delirious with everything that had happened, was happening. He could hardly believe that barely twelve hours previously, he had been sitting in a bar with Greg, wondering how he and Sherlock would ever be back to what they’d been before Sherlock went away. And now they were everything they had been before, and so much more. 

John’s jeans were still rumpled on the floor at the end of Sherlock’s bed where they’d been so hastily tossed the night before. He reached down and picked them up - his phone was inside, and he had a sudden overwhelming need to text Greg. He sat on the side of the bed, still naked, the remains of Sherlock’s come from the night before crusted across his tummy, and tossed off a quick text: 

Thanks for the talk last night, mate. I did talk to SH.   
Worked out, uh, nicely. ; ) SH already at work on the  
case you gave him. Come round tonight for a   
beer/cuppa/whatever? JW

John dropped the phone on the bed, and went into the bathroom to clean himself up. He could hear Sherlock moving around in the kitchen, beakers and microscope slides clinking together gently. It made him smile - god, he felt he’d never stop smiling now. After two years of hardly EVER feeling happy, he was just bursting with it. He was giddy. He felt like he was sixteen, crushing on some gorgeous girl, delirious with it. Except it wasn’t just some cute girl, it was Sherlock. His Sherlock, his gorgeous, fantastic Sherlock, come back to him from the dead, and now they were together - really together, properly, as it always should have been - and John just couldn’t restrain himself from grinning like a madman. 

John stepped out of the shower, thinking about working a case with Sherlock for the first time in two years. He couldn’t wait. He felt as excited as he had that first time Sherlock had asked him to come along to a crime scene, literally minutes after he’d walked into Baker Street for the first time. This felt the same way; a whole new start. As John towelled himself off, Sherlock walked into the bedroom. He clucked his tongue at John, standing there still wet, rivulets of water running down his chest, towel slung around his hips. Sherlock looked out from underneath his hair at John, his eyes lusting and warm. “Later was too long.”

“Wha…” John barely had time to process what Sherlock had said, before Sherlock was up against him, eyes now blue-green, clear and intense, and boring into John, pulling the towel off and throwing it to the floor, his hands sliding up John’s bare back, and then down to his hips, “Oh. Yeah, okay.” John could hear his own voice had already dropped an octave, was husky with arousal.

John let Sherlock push him over to the bed and lay him on his back. He was completely naked, and Sherlock completely clothed. Sherlock towered over him, spots of colour high on his cheeks, his pupils big and black. John could see his erection straining the fabric of his trousers, and the sight made John moan involuntarily. He reached for Sherlock’s trouser button, “This doesn’t seem quite fair, you know…”

Sherlock took his hand, moved it away, and pressed it down to the bed. He slowly leaned over John, those curls falling into his eyes, and breathed hot and moist over John’s ear, “No, John. Not yet.”

So Sherlock was taking control this time. John was used to being the more dominant one in the bedroom, just as he had been last night, so this was new. And pretty madly sexy, actually. John felt himself harden completely, immediately, felt the hot rush gathering in his belly, blood flushing under his skin, across his chest and up his neck. Christ, what Sherlock could do to him with just breath, just words. He had the thought again: How could we have waited so long for this? Why did it take his death, fake or not, to make me realize everything we are to each other? 

Sherlock pinned John’s arms to the bed with his elbows and hands, and began kissing down John’s neck. He was just ghosting his lips over John’s skin, barely making contact. John was already shuddering with pleasure, making soft noises in the back of his throat, and watching, watching Sherlock wind his way down to John’s chest, his lips dragging gently across the light hairs on John’s breastbone. His eyes never left John’s.

Sherlock’s hands slid up from John’s elbows to his hands, holding him down, just as John had done to him last night. John shivered, gripping Sherlock’s fingers in his own and squeezed, “Oh god, oh fuck, Sherlock. Oh fuck, this is bloody amazing.” 

Sherlock responded by simultaneously moving his face up to crush his lips to John’s in a harsh kiss, his tongue pushing into John’s mouth aggressively, and moved one hand down to encircle John’s cock with his fingers. John cried out against Sherlock’s mouth, and put his one free hand around the back of Sherlock’s head. Christ, he loved that hair. He would never get tired of the feeling of his fingers tangling in those soft curls, of the smell of Sherlock’s hair falling around his face as he leaned over him. 

Sherlock was kissing John with ferocity; licking the inside of John’s lips, swirling their tongues together, biting his lips, licking down his jawline and then back up again into his mouth. John was going lightheaded, his whole body buzzing, his ears buzzing with white noise as Sherlock licked at him and stroked him. His body was moving on it’s own, without thought, curving his hips up into Sherlock’s hips and hand, John’s left arm still pinned to the bed by Sherlock’s right.

Sherlock’s fingers around John’s cock were warm and tight. He was going faster now, moving up over the head and all the way down the the base, and John could feel the tightening in his groin and the tension building in his belly, “Oh Christ, Sherlock, yes, love, faster, yes…” 

Sherlock licked up to John’s earlobe with a wide, flattened tongue and sucked it into his mouth. Then in John’s ear, his voice like a panther’s growl, predatory and dangerous, “Not yet. Not.yet.John.”

And he abruptly let go of John and knelt on the bed, his knees on the outside of John’s legs. Jesus Christ, he was so fucking gorgeous. That’s all John could think. Sherlock was the most bloody fucking gorgeous thing John had ever seen, even more so when he was turned on and hard and hovering over John with flushed cheeks and wet lips, and a dangerous gleam in his now nearly black eyes.

“Ah, fuck, Sherlock. You’re fantastic, you are. You’re fucking gorgeous,” John ran his hands, now free, over Sherlock’s shirt, feeling the hard muscles of his stomach, and down again to his hips, running his thumbs down the front of Sherlock’s rather prominent hip bones. He reached for Sherlock’s groin again, but Sherlock moved John’s hand away and firmly put it back onto his hip. Sherlock slowly shook his head at John, a warning not to do that again. Sherlock’s complete control of what was happening was an incredible turn on, and John felt a shiver of pleasure rippling down his back.

Sherlock reminded John again of some kind of predatory animal as he began slithering backwards, snaking down John’s belly with his tongue, his eyes intense, and dark, and locked on John’s face as he moved. He lifted his face from John’s skin long enough to murmur, “You’re fucking gorgeous, too, John.” and then he grabbed John’s cock again, and lowered his mouth, his perfect, amazing mouth, onto it, and John felt like he was blacking out from the sensation of it. He had never heard Sherlock curse like that before, and that alone was astonishingly, filthily arousing.

The night before, John had wondered momentarily if this was Sherlock’s first sexual experience, given what Mycroft was always indicating, and Sherlock hadn’t had his mouth on John for long enough before to really judge, but this time, John knew without a doubt, Sherlock had done this many many times. He was incredible. He wrapped one hand around the base of John’s cock, exerting gentle pressure, and trailed the fingers of his other hand down, down, and began slowly stroking John’s arse, all the while twisting his tongue around and up and down the length. He began moving his mouth up and down, making the head of John’s cock touch the back of his throat and slip down his tongue and then finally slip just past his lips, over and over again.

John felt like his skin was about to fly apart. The exquisite sight of Sherlock with those spectacular lips around John’s cock would have probably been enough to make him come, but combined with the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue twisting around it, and his fingers stroking John’s arse, he just couldn’t stop himself. “Sher…” he tried to warn him, but before he could even finish crying out Sherlock’s name, he was coming, his whole body stiffening, legs shaking, and his hands flew to the back of Sherlock’s head as he felt his cock pulsing inside Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock stayed with it, swallowing around John, his tensed tongue still massaging the underside of John’s cock as he came.

He kept his mouth on John as he quivered and shook through an amazingly long, intense orgasm. Finally, John stilled, and Sherlock slipped his lips off of John’s cock, and laid his cheek on the inside of John’s thigh, planting a gentle kiss in the crease between his leg and his groin. “Good?”

John laughed breathlessly, “A bit.” His whole body was warm and heavy, limbs boneless and leaden. 

Sherlock was tracing circles on John’s belly with his fingertips, still laying between John’s legs. He raised his eyes to John’s face, and John was a bit shocked to see they were glistening. 

“Sherlock?” With some effort, John pushed himself up on his elbows so he could look at Sherlock, “You okay?”

Sherlock laid his head back down on John, moving up just a little, so his head was resting on his belly. John felt him breathe in deeply and his breath on the way out was shuddering. “Yes, I’m alright. I just...this is new for me. I’ve never gotten so much pleasure from giving someone else pleasure. It’s rather...overwhelming.”

John felt a deep surge of affection for this strange, solitary man. It must be so difficult to be Sherlock. Every sensation, every feeling, every detail was the world was amplified for him all the time. John let himself flop back on the bed, he reached down to take Sherlock’s hand, and tugged it gently, “Come up here.”

Sherlock let John pull him up the bed until he was laying half on John’s left side, with his head curled to John’s shoulder. He gazed at John from under a mop of curls, and one tear slipped out down onto John’s skin. John put his arm around Sherlock’s head and began brushing the curls out of his eyes. With his other hand, he tilted Sherlock’s chin up until they were eye to eye. Sherlock did look overwhelmed, and not a little bit scared. 

“Oh, Sherlock. You make me so happy, just by being your ridiculous, infuriating self. You don’t have to be guarded with me. I KNOW you. This hasn’t changed anything between us - I’m not going to suddenly hurt you because now we’re having sex. I promise. We’re just as we’ve always been. You’re still my best mate.” John kissed Sherlock softly on the mouth, then the cheek, then both eyes, and finally the tip of his nose. “I know this is hard for you. And I expected it would be. And I want to help you through it.”

“I know, John. It’s just...you must understand I’ve never done this before.” Sherlock laid his hand against the side of John’s face, slowly fussing with the short hairs above John’s ear. He focused his eyes away from John’s, watching his own fingers. 

John laughed, “You cannot possibly tell me you’ve never done THAT before, because THAT was bloody fucking brilliant.”

That made Sherlock smile, and his eyes flicked back to John’s, a little of his normal haughtiness returning to them, “Yes, John. I have done that before. What I have not done is done that solely to please the other person because I...because I...love...him. I have not had a relationship before you, John. I have had sex, many times, despite what Mycroft thinks, but I have never loved someone before. And I’m engulfed by my feelings for you. It’s disconcerting.”

John slipped both arms around Sherlock and squeezed. He couldn’t think of a proper response to what Sherlock had just said, so he just said what he was feeling, “I love you. It will be alright, love. I promise.”

Sherlock lifted his head and looked at John, “Why do you keep calling me love? That’s the sixth time you’ve called me that since last night.”

John laughed through his nose, and shook his head, “Sherlock. You’ve been counting, oi... I don’t know...it just comes out when I’m talking to you now. It’s a term of endearment. It’s just what you do when you’re in relationship.”

Sherlock nodded, processing that, “I do love you John. Very much. So very, very much.” He snuggled into John’s side and kissed his neck lightly. 

John ran his hand down Sherlock’s back and sighed happily, “I know. I’ve always known. Now. Let’s go have that fry up and get over to The Globe.”


	3. The Globe Murders

The cab rumbled across Blackfriars Bridge, taking John and Sherlock back from meeting Greg at The Globe in Bankside. Sherlock was back in full fledged Sherlock mode, furiously tapping at his phone, eyes flicking rapidly over the screen, reading and thinking at light speed, occasionally stopping to stare sightlessly out the window, eyes fixed on something inside his own head. John knew better than to interrupt him. Sherlock wasn’t quite at the place where he actually would not physically even hear John if he spoke, but he was on the edge of it.

The victims at The Globe were a young couple, Nick Rowland and Gemma Atherton, who had earlier the night before attended a performance of Hamlet at the theater. When they weren’t home the next morning, their flatmates called the police. The bodies were strung up against the pillars on the stage, completely unmarked, seemingly healthy, apart from being not alive anymore. They were posed in such a way that Greg felt it had the potential to be a serial murderer. It was not your bog standard murder, certainly, and it had Sherlock written all over it.

John flipped through his notepad, going over what he’d made note of medically. There wasn’t much, as the bodies were totally unmarked. He expected something would turn up during the autopsy - poison or an overdose of a sedative - but there was nothing he could really do until the autopsy. The last two years, he’d begun sitting in on autopsies with Molly. As a doctor, he knew more about the body when it was living than when it was dead, and he’d learned a lot from her. He’d like to sit in on these autopsies in particular, since there was no obvious cause of death. 

He closed his notepad and leaned his head back on the seat of the cab and closed his eyes. Christ, the last twenty four hours had been completely insane, completely mind bending. And John was dead chuffed about it. A slow grin spread over his face. It was as if the world had been all wrong for two years, and within a day, had righted itself. Here he was, in a cab with Sherlock, riding home from a crime scene, working a case together with Greg, as they’d always done. 

Oi, Greg. That was funny and embarrassing and awkward. John felt his cheeks reddening, just thinking of it. Greg knew what had happened the moment he laid eyes on John and Sherlock, especially with Sherlock making absolutely no attempt to hide the love bite on his neck. As Sherlock swept around the crime scene, clacking his magnifying glass open and shut, and not talking to anyone but himself for a good bit, Greg had sidled up beside John and given him a knowing grin, then had said, “Get off with Sherlock last night, eh? That’s cracking, that is, mate. Well done!” 

When John hadn’t answered, Greg had paused and then let out a wolf whistle, “Oh, you cheeky little bugger. You did a lot more than that. Nice one, John,”, and he’d clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh. John had felt himself rather happily embarrassed. Not because it was Sherlock, but just because it was apparently so bloody obvious to everyone. When they’d left the scene, Greg winked at him conspiratorially, and John was struck again by what a wonderful friend he’d come to be. 

John felt Sherlock recline slightly beside him. He opened his eyes and rolled his head to the right to look at Sherlock, and found to his slight surprise that Sherlock was looking at him with a warm smile on his face, his eyes now a chocolatey brown with gold flecks, looking at John fondly. John had always been fascinated by those eyes - they really could be hundreds of different colors, depending on the light, the day, and seemingly, Sherlock’s mood. Sherlock dropped his hand to John’s thigh, and John covered it with his own, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers gently. “Love you.” John felt he could never say this enough - to make up for all the years he should have been saying it and hadn’t been. 

Sherlock leaned forward and rested his forehead against John’s for a moment, then nodded briskly and turned away, sat back up, withdrew his hand and steepled his hands together, thinking. John left it. It was more than sufficient for Sherlock to show that kind of casual, everyday affection, especially at the beginning of a case which John knew was fascinating to him. John could hardly believe how easily he and Sherlock were slipping into this couplehood. He should probably be more suspicious, actually, he thought, his brow furrowing and his lips pursing, but he was just too happy to bother.

John’s phone buzzed. He dug it out of his pocket, and there was a text from Greg: 

Posed body found in Battersea Park Children’s Zoo.   
Come ASAP. GL

“Sherlock.” No response. Sherlock was staring out the window at nothing. “Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock drew his templed hands down over his lips and without turning his head, said, “Another body, John?”

“In the bloody Children’s Zoo in Battersea. The CHILDREN’S Zoo, Christ,” John muttered, feeling deeply disturbed by this case already. 

“Brilliant.” Sherlock murmured, his lips ticking up into that half smile.

John rolled his eyes and tapped on the back of the cabbie’s seat. “Change of plans - Battersea Park, please.”

***

Five hours later, Sherlock and John finally returned to Baker Street. The body in Battersea Park was posed, and costumed in a missing bit of wardrobe from The Globe. He had quickly been identified as Thom Whitehall, a sixteen year old who had gone missing about a week previous. Sixteen years old. John and Greg were gutted over the kid’s age. Sherlock, of course, couldn’t understand why that made any difference.   
The Children’s Zoo had been cleared, but a thorough search of the area had yielded little evidence. Sherlock had assigned John the task of interviewing the Whitehall parents, and while Sherlock stayed behind to study the scene, John and Greg had gone to break the news to the boy’s parents. It was emotionally draining, to say the least.

Now John was starving and exhausted, and ready for a bit of crap telly and some take away, and to put the case out of his mind long enough to clear a space in which to think about it properly. Sherlock, of course, was wired. He paced the flat, running his fingers through his hair, talking to himself, tacking paper up on the wall. He wasn’t ready for John’s input, not yet. John knew how to identify the mood swing that would happen when he wanted John’s help, and until then, John planned to eat, sleep, and make sure Sherlock did the same. Well, eat, anyway. He could never make him sleep. 

“Right! I’m going to pop down to Bombay Spice and get us some curries,” John knew Sherlock hadn’t heard him at all, but he carried on as if he had, “Alright, then, be back in 20.”

When John returned, Sherlock was completely lost in thought. Curled in the leather chair by the fire, knees drawn up to his chin, fingers and hands in constant motion, John knew he was completely unreachable for at least the next two hours. 

John put Sherlock’s curry in the fridge, knowing he wouldn’t eat it now anyway, ate his own in front of a rerun of East Enders. After watching both X Factor and The Great British Bake-off without Sherlock speaking a single word to him, he decided to just go to sleep. John didn’t realize until he was drifting off that he’d just naturally chosen Sherlock’s bed, hadn’t even thought of sleeping in his bedroom at all. The thought made him smile, and he turned his nose into the sheets, breathing in Sherlock as he fell asleep.

***

John woke up with the vague sense that it wasn’t actually time to wake up. He felt drunk with sleep, his eyes felt gritty and burning. Why was he awake? Then he felt Sherlock’s arm snake over his waist, and Sherlock’s lips were against his ear, whispering, “Didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep, John.”

John closed his eyes and snuggled back into Sherlock’s warm chest, “Are you coming for a CUDDLE, Sherlock? I didn’t figure you for the type.”

There was a long pause. “Shut it, John,” came Sherlock’s disembodied voice as John felt sleep taking him again. Everything about that made him grin - the sound of Sherlock’s voice, gravelly with exhaustion, the way Sherlock said his name, and the fact that this all was just becoming so natural, so normal, so quickly. Sherlock barely slept anyway, and hardly at all during a case. Him crawling into bed with John after a long day was something John would never have imagined happening.

Sherlock rested his nose against the back of John’s head, and gave him a kiss into his hair. His hand was flat and warm against John’s stomach, his body loosely curled around John’s. “Goodnight, Dr. Watson.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.” John’s last thought as he drifted back into sleep was, ‘This feels so right. So fucking right. How have we gone so long without doing this every night?’ He tucked himself closer into Sherlock and slept.

***

The next time John awoke, there was bright sunlight streaming in the window. He rolled over from his side to his back, stretching, and to his great surprise, there was Sherlock, sound asleep beside him. Sherlock rarely slept more than two or three hours at a time, and never ever past about seven a.m., especially during a case. But here he was, breathing deeply, his face relaxed, his arm thrown up over his ear and wrapped around his head, his fingers curled on the pillow next to his right eye. 

John laid there, watching Sherlock breathe, marvelling again that he was even here. For two years, two excruciatingly long and painful years, he’d been dead. John had thought that he would never again have the kind of happiness and fulfillment he’d had working and living with Sherlock. His friendship with Greg and working at Scotland Yard had given him some sense of purpose, but there had been little else for John. There had been women, of course, but never for long. Harry occasionally made an appearance at 221B, but their efforts at being close always failed. John had been trying to make his way, day by day, but there had been such a gaping hole in his life and his heart without Sherlock. In the last nine days, since Sherlock’s return, John felt like he had been given back his life, his soul, everything. He felt almost delirious with joy.

Sherlock had returned with no warning at all. John had been sitting in a cafe, waiting for a date, and while checking his phone in his lap, he sensed someone approaching the table. Assuming it was his date, he looked up, and nearly passed out from shock. There stood Sherlock, hair a bit longer and scruffier, a layer of stubble on his jaw, a bit thinner than the last time John had seen him, but undoubtedly Sherlock. Alive. 

“Hello, John.” He’d said, as casually as if they’d seen each other the day previously. 

John hadn’t even been able to respond. He sat there, stunned and mute, feeling tears streaming down his face and running down his neck into his collar. Just sat there, silently crying, too stunned to even be angry at first. Sherlock had sat down at the table, to his great credit waiting quite a long time for John to speak first. When it became obvious John wasn’t going to speak, Sherlock had finally said, “John. Let’s go home. Come home with me.”

And John had, without argument. He’d forgotten all about his date, a lovely woman named Mary, and he’d just gotten in cab with Sherlock, and ridden home to Baker Street. The whole time, just staring at Sherlock, almost physically unable to move his eyes away from him. Their talk by the fireside had followed. And here he was, a scant nine days later, laying in bed with Sherlock, looking at his beautiful face; those cheekbones, that amazing aquiline nose, the laugh-lines around his eyes, the freckles on his neck, and here were their knees touching under the blanket. It was almost too wondrous to bear. 

John moved closer and touched his lips gently to Sherlock’s. Sherlock stirred, rubbing his hand over his face and grumbling slightly. John smiled. He slipped his hand under the blanket and put his arm around Sherlock’s waist, tucked his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck, and began softly kissing the soft skin under his jaw. Sherlock made a happy little “Mmmm…” sound and his arm came off of his head, sliding around John’s hip and resting his hand on John’s arse.

The tingling in John’s stomach and groin grew. He sucked a little harder on Sherlock’s neck, making Sherlock gasp, his eyes fluttering open, and he wiggled a little closer to John. “Well, well. Good morning, Dr. Watson.”

His voice was thick with sleep and even deeper than usual, sultry and inviting. John felt himself getting hard already, as Sherlock slid his hand up John’s back and ruffled his fingers into his hair. John kissed all along Sherlock’s jawline tenderly and slowly, until he was finally nose to nose with Sherlock. His blue eyes stared into Sherlock’s currently green and gold ones, sparkling in the sunlight. “You’re the love of my life, Sherlock. You really are. The love of my life.”

Sherlock slowly smiled, and he reached his left hand up to touch John’s face, his fingers gently caressing John’s cheek and nose and finally running his fingers over John’s mouth, “So sentimental, John.”

And then they were suddenly crushing themselves together, kissing each other ferociously, hands tangling in each other’s hair. John was so hard, it was painful. John pushed Sherlock onto his stomach, and began kissing down Sherlock’s beautifully muscled back, and then licked straight up Sherlock’s spine, making him shudder and whimper with pleasure. He shimmied Sherlock’s pants off of him, and then leaned back down over his naked body. John put his lips next to Sherlock’s ear, his whole body pressed against Sherlock, their hands entwined, and whispered, “I want you like this. I want you just like this.”

John could feel the goose pimples rising across Sherlock’s skin, saw his blood rising, flushing across his pale back. All for him, all for John. He wondered briefly if anyone had ever been able to turn Sherlock on before. The thought that probably no one ever had, turned John on even more. HIS Sherlock. Just for him. Sherlock pressed his face into the mattress and pushed his bum up into John’s groin, “However you want me, John. You can have me any way you want.”

John was so aroused, his skin felt like it was nothing but nerve endings. He was shaking and shivering and his breath was uneven. He knelt backwards, and Sherlock automatically bent his knees, pushing his arse up in the air, his arms stretched out in front of him. John ran his fingers down from the nape of Sherlock’s neck down to his arse, and then curled his hands around Sherlock’s hips, pulling him backwards, and pushed his cock against Sherlock, simultaneously bending over Sherlock’s back to kiss his shoulder blades, and murmur, “I love you so much, Sherlock. I love you.”

“I love you, too, John. I’ve never loved anyone, but I love you. You’re the only one, John.” Sherlock ground back into John’s cock, sighing and groaning, “John, I want you. I want you inside me. Come on.”

“I will, Sherlock. I will,” John could hardly breathe. His chest was tight with want, with Sherlock spread out in front of him, offering himself, the skin on his back flushed with desire and covered with little beads of sweat. The curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck were sweaty and John could smell Sherlock’s shampoo wafting up at him. 

John reached over and took the lube from the drawer, haphazardly spreading some over himself and Sherlock, too addled by arousal to be precise. He rocked forward, his breath becoming more ragged as he felt himself entering Sherlock, “Ah, Christ! Oh my fucking god, that feels good.”

Sherlock squirmed and moaned in front of him, and John took one hand off of Sherlock’s hip, and reached around to take Sherlock’s cock in his hand. It occurred to him that this was the first time he’d actually touched Sherlock this way, even though they’d been together three times now. As John’s fingers circled around Sherlock’s cock, he felt Sherlock going rigid, and then a great shuddering cry went through him, his whole body quaking.

John immediately stopped moving. “Sherlock? Are you okay, love?”

There was a long moment of silence, John just kneeling there, inside Sherlock, his hand still around Sherlock’s cock, but neither of them moving a centimeter. 

Sherlock, nodded slowly and carefully, “Yes, John. I just...it feels so...I can’t find the words. It’s amazing. Good, it’s good. Don’t stop again.”

John slowly began moving, not wanting to spook him again, stroking his hand up Sherlock’s cock, and rolling his hips forward rhythmically. He put the palm of the hand that wasn’t around Sherlock’s cock against the middle of Sherlock’s back to brace himself. Sherlock’s back was hot and red, his neck blotchy purple. John could only see the left side of his face, because the right side was pressed into the mattress. He was keening with pleasure and pushing back into John. John felt a wave of emotion sweep over him, making his head reel, “Sherlock, my god, you’re bloody beautiful. You’re so bloody beautiful, and you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and my everything, and I missed you so much. God I missed you so much.”

Sherlock seemed hardly able to speak, but he choked out, “I know John, I know. I’m sorry, so sorry I couldn’t tell you,” his voice breathless and yearning, and it was the first time he’d said he was sorry about what had happened. John felt like he was drowning in Sherlock, in this insane life they had shared - were sharing - together.

John sped up, feeling the shivers begin running up his spine, the tightening in his belly and his groin, and he knew he was close, but he wanted Sherlock to come first. He ran his left hand up Sherlock’s side, over his shoulder and down his outstretched arm, until John’s chest was pressed against Sherlock’s back and the fingers of both their left hands were entangled. John was kissing across Sherlock’s shoulders, his tongue lapping the salty sweat and the spicy soap Sherlock used. Sherlock was absolutely thrashing underneath him, and John could feel the muscles in Sherlock’s back tightening, his cock beginning to pulse.

“Yes, Sherlock, come, darling. Come for me,” John husked out, and then Sherlock was, his back bending concave, his legs trembling, throbbing hot between John’s fingers. It was too much for John, and he came hard and fast, repeating Sherlock’s name in a low whisper, his face in Sherlock’s scorching hot back, their fingers squeezing together tightly.

“Oh my god, Sherlock. That was...that was bloody...fucking...brilliant. Fuck, I’m dizzy,” John laughed, flopped off of Sherlock heavily and closed his eyes, his head spinning. 

Sherlock remained on his stomach for a long minute, his eyes closed, long black lashes resting on his cheeks. John opened his eyes, turned his head to look at Sherlock, lying there gleaming with a sheen of sweat, breathing heavily through swollen lips, “You’re going to get sick of me telling you how lovely you are, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes, his arms folded under his head, “No one’s ever...wanted me to...no one...” He sputtered to a stop, seemingly unable or unwilling to finish the thought. 

John had an idea what he was on about, and the thought broke his heart. “No one’s ever cared whether you came, whether you enjoyed it? Is that it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed. John felt his eyes welling up. How cruel people had been to Sherlock. All his life. Using him and using his brain and his body and then calling him a freak and weirdo. John rolled toward him, rubbed his back with one hand, and put his lips to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I will never do that to you. Never. We’re here, in this moment, together. It’s both of us. You know that, right?”

Sherlock responded by folding himself into John’s chest and tucking his face under John’s chin. His warm damp curls were in John’s mouth, and John felt suddenly as if he could never hold Sherlock tightly enough. He just wanted to hold him in this bed forever and protect him and love him. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back and kissed those damp curls over and over. 

Eventually, Sherlock relaxed, and stretched out, slipping his left arm over John’s hip, and opening his eyes finally to look into John’s. John reached up and touched his cheek, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

Sherlock smiled, but just as he opened his mouth to answer, both their phones buzzed loudly. Sherlock’s smile immediately shifted from warm and soft to predatory, and his eyes lost their sleepy post-sex haze, instantly wide awake. He sat up and reached over John for his phone, on the bedside table, where he must have left it the night before. He glanced down at the text message. “The bodies are ready for autopsies. John. Case, John. Let’s go to work.”

John sighed. He did want to work this case, but he also wanted to lay here with Sherlock a bit longer. He knew Sherlock was lost to him now, though. Sherlock was perched on the edge of the bed, rapidly texting Molly and Greg. John pushed himself up, but couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s bare back before he got out of bed. Gratifyingly, Sherlock shivered against John’s lips, but he didn’t stop texting. 

“Cheers, Sherlock. Here I go. Oi, I’m starving.” John knew he was basically talking to himself as he padded into the kitchen to grab something. He was unlikely to eat again until late that night. 

Sherlock swept into the kitchen seconds later, already dressed and looking impeccable. “What on earth are you doing, John? We have to go, right now.”

John resignedly closed the refrigerator. Crisps from the hospital machine would have to do. “Okay, Sherlock. Here I come.”

Sherlock was already down the steps. John laughed. What a life he had with this man. What a ludicrous, amazing, enthralling, gorgeous life. He couldn’t believe he had it all back. 

***

At the lab, John felt suddenly like the expert, and Sherlock the novice. He and Molly had been doing this together for two years now, and they had a rhythm between them. Sherlock was clearly annoyed by the rapport between them, and after it became apparent John was going to run the autopsy his way, he became snappish and insulting fairly quickly. 

“John, hurry up with those x-rays. Unnecessary, in any case. We need to get inside these bodies. We need samples. I would expect a doctor to know how to operate an x-ray machine, or do you require assistance?” Sherlock huffed and tried to push John out of the way.

John planted his feet in front of the controls, and looked Sherlock in the eye, “Sherlock. I work here now. This is my job, and I’m doing it my way. You’ll get your samples, just let me alone to finish this. Back.off.”

Sherlock looked completely affronted. “Call me when I’m no longer extraneous, then. I need a cup of coffee.” And he stalked out of the lab.

Molly looked horrified, and turned to John with a questioning expression. John turned back to the x-ray machine, and began shooting the next set of images, “Don’t fret, Molly. He’s just out of sorts because he’s finding things aren’t exactly as he left them. When Sherlock doesn’t feel like the most important person in the room, he gets stroppy.”

Molly smiled at John in that sweet way she had. “You understand him so well. You’re good for him. And he’s good for you. You...fit. It’s nice to see you, you know, together again. Not that I...I didn’t mean to imply…” She faltered into silence, as Molly often did. 

John laughed, a warm feeling spreading through his chest, “Molly, we ARE together. It’s okay - imply all you want. You’re spot on.”

Molly clapped her hand to her mouth, a wide smile behind it, “Oh, really, John?! Oh, that’s lovely! I always thought you weren’t, you know...I thought you liked girls.”

“I do like girls, Molly. I think it’s pretty Sherlock-specific.” He winked at her. “Now, you get started with the cutting, now I’ve done with the x-rays, and I’m going to go find my idiot…”John struggled with what term to use. Boyfriend? That hardly seemed a significant enough term to describe the two of them. Lover? Ah, no. Partner? Still not right. “My idiot. That’ll do.” 

John left Molly in the lab, and walked down to the nearest coffee machine, at the end of a dank little hallway where the patient rooms had been converted to storage. Sure enough, Sherlock was pacing in front of it, the blue light from the machine making him look even paler than usual. He didn’t look up when John approached. 

“You ready to stop taking the piss and come in there and do some work, Sherlock?” John felt less annoyed than he sounded. He was still a bit merry from the morning, and honestly all the days since Sherlock had come home, and ready to be slightly more forgiving of Sherlock’s moods than he would have normally been.

Sherlock stalked past him wordlessly, shooting John a look of pure venom, and John rolled his eyes. He turned, watching Sherlock walk back to the lab. Things really had not changed. The thought gave John a strange sense of calm, even with Sherlock in the middle of a temper tantrum. They were still Them. Even when Sherlock was being a stroppy little shit. He shook his head, grinned and followed. 

***

Sherlock and John finally left the lab after 11 that night. Little had been learned from the bodies themselves, and Sherlock was frustrated. The victims had been given a massive dose of sedatives, which eventually stopped their hearts. Still, they had no motive, very little physical evidence, and the clock was ticking until another body turned up. 

In the cab, they sat on opposite sides, each looking out the window. Sherlock had spoken to John as little as possible all day, and John was feeling pretty fed up with it by this point. 

“I did have to move on with my life, you know.” John was fairly certain that a slow x-ray machine wasn’t what had Sherlock’s knickers in a twist.

“What, John? What?” Sherlock’s tone was tight and dismissive. 

“I said, I did have to move on. I had to get a job, go on dates, make a way for myself in the world. You were dead, I was alone.” John felt some well-submerged anger bubbling up in his throat. His chest felt tight. 

“Of course you did. Why are you telling me all this?” Sherlock still hadn’t turned from the window to look at John. 

“Because you’re angry with me about it, and you’ve no right to be. You’re angry because I know more than you do at an autopsy now, and because Molly and I, and Greg and I, have a working relationship that doesn’t include you. You’re angry because I wasn’t sitting around the flat for two years, sobbing, and now you’ve seen proof of it.” John poked Sherlock in the thigh, “Oi, look at me!”

“John.” Sherlock turned to face him, finally. His brow was furrowed, his face tense. “John, I am not angry at you for moving on. I am not angry with you at all. I felt...I felt...jealous. I felt jealous and...I think, I think I felt sad?...that I hadn’t been there. That so many months of your life had passed without me in it. And I was jealous of Molly that she had been there, had spent every day with you. And I was also proud of you, for being so strong and being able to cope so well without me, when I was so...when I was so lost. Without you. And I, as you know, don’t...cope...well with overwhelming emotions. I am sorry you thought I was angry with you. I was, and am, not.” 

They looked at each other for a long moment. 

“Sherlock, I…” John couldn’t find the words to respond to that. He just reached for Sherlock’s hand, laying in his lap, and squeezed it. “I did NOT cope well without you. I spent three months in the flat, alone, doing nothing. Mrs. Hudson kept me fed, didn’t make me pay the rent, and forced her company on me a few times a day, even though I couldn’t even talk to her. She just...sat there, talking, making small talk, not allowing me to be alone. I think...I think she thought I would hurt myself. I lost weight, I didn’t shower, shave. I was...I was beyond grief. Finally, Greg came and literally dragged me out of the flat. He made me shower, and get dressed, and he took me to work. He made me work. It was the only thing that saved me. That lab, and Molly, and Greg...without them, I would have been completely lost. So. There you go. Don’t be proud, don’t be jealous. It was just surviving, that’s all. I was just surviving without you. I didn’t get my life back until you came back. The last nine days have been the first time I’ve felt alive in two years.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He just stared at John with sad grey gold eyes, then leaned in and wrapped one arm around John and hugged him as tightly as their positions in the back of the cab would allow. John put his face in the shoulder of Sherlock’s scratchy wool overcoat, breathing in heavily, and moved as close to him as he could get. They stayed that way the rest of the cab ride back to Baker Street, silent, Sherlock’s thumb rubbing John’s hip gently.

At home, they went to bed wordlessly, no words were needed. John laid down first, held his arms open to Sherlock, undressing next to the bed. Sherlock crawled across the bed, tucked himself into John’s arms, picked up John’s left hand and kissed it gently. John, wrapped around Sherlock’s back, put his lips to Sherlock’s bare shoulder and sighed. 

“It’s okay now, Sherlock. It’s all okay now you’re back, really. Don’t fret about it. I’m...better.” John rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s back, trying to comfort him. Don’t let Sherlock hurt. Ever. 

Sherlock burrowed back into John’s stomach and squeezed his hand tightly. “I am sorry I put you through all that. Truly. It was necessary. You would have been in danger had you known I was alive, and I couldn’t...I just couldn’t put you at that risk.”

So it was just as Greg had said. Sherlock had been desperate to keep John safe, at any cost, even John’s own sanity. He really couldn’t be angry about that. 

“It’s fine. It’s truly fine. I love you. Let’s get some sleep, eh?” John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder again, and closed his eyes. He was suddenly crushingly exhausted. He couldn’t take any more emotional conversations, or anymore casework. He just needed to sleep, and have some peace. 

“Yes, John. Go to sleep.” Sherlock laid there until he knew John was sleeping soundly, his breath slow and steady, and then extricated himself from John’s arms, gathered up his clothes, crept out of the bedroom, and went back to work.


	4. Pub Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have a whole chapter about them solving the case, but I'm too distraught about HLV right now, and I just want fluffy happy Johnlock porn. 
> 
> So, have fun, guys.

Several weeks later…

John glanced over at Sherlock, sitting next to him on the wooden bench in the pub booth. John could tell he was getting antsy. They were waiting for Greg and Molly, celebrating the closing of what John had titled The Shakespeare Murders on the blog. And even now, in the throes of victory, and with John sitting right beside him, Sherlock just didn’t do well in purely social situations. His leg was jumping under the table and he was drumming relentlessly with his fingers on back of the booth, his arm behind John’s shoulders. He was a bundle of nerves.

“Just two pints, Sherlock, okay? We don’t have to stay much longer than that.” John dropped his hand to Sherlock’s restless leg and exerted some pressure, “Just, can you stop doing that with your leg? It’s making me bonkers.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, but stopped jiggling his leg. The drumming fingers continued. 

“Look, why don’t YOU get a pint? Maybe, I don’t know, it will relax you a bit,” John took a swig of his own pint, and checked his phone again to see if Greg had texted. They were a bit late now - Sherlock’s attention was going to completely wane if they didn’t get there soon.

“Me, John? Get a pint?” Sherlock said it like it was something disgusting. “Alcohol has no effect on me. Why bother?”

John sighed and rolled his eyes, “Just to keep you occupied, I guess, Sherlock. Just...because I asked you to, okay?”

Sherlock finally stopped drumming on the back of the booth. He looked at John and his eyes softened, turning greener in the dim yellow pub lights. He brushed his knuckles along John’s jawline, “Alright, John. Because you asked me to. No other reason. It won’t relax me.”

“I believe you. Now go order your beer, you git,” John pushed Sherlock out of the booth, and looked past him to see Molly and Greg arriving, finally. “Oi! Over here!”

Greg waved, and put his hand on Molly’s back to steer her towards the booth. John stood up to greet them, “Sherlock’s just at the bar. Molly, you look lovely.”

“Ta, John, so do you. I mean, you look handsome. I mean...you look nice.” Poor Molly never could stop herself from fumbling over her words. John smiled and hugged her, and she squeezed him back, “Sorry we were late. We were getting busy. Oh! I didn’t mean that. I meant, we were busy at the Yard. On a case.”

Both John and Greg laughed, and eventually Molly did to. They quickly fell into conversation, discussing the more interesting aspects of the case they’d just closed. Sherlock returned with his drink and slid into the booth beside John, “Hello, Lestrade. Molly.”

Greg laughed, “I do wish you’d stop calling me Lestrade, Sherlock. Especially now, seein’ as you’re my best mate’s bloke. It makes things, I dunno, too formal. We’re all friends here. Call me Greg, please.”

Sherlock took a large swing of his beer. “Of course. Greg. I will try to remember.”

John inhaled deeply. Christ, Sherlock was so uncomfortable. Normal social gatherings were so hard for him to manage, to understand. He slipped his hand under the table and squeezed Sherlock’s knee quickly, trying to reassure him. Sherlock responded by downing his entire beer in one gulp, slamming it to the table, and returning to the bar to get another drink. 

Greg shook his head, “What’s up with him?”

Molly responded before John could, “This is hard for him, Greg. He’s just...not good at people, unless he’s dissecting them. He’s trying. For John, I think. He’s trying for John.” And she smiled that sweet smile she had. John noticed a look of tenderness on Greg’s face, looking at her, and John wondered, not for the first time, if there was something brewing between them.

John was grateful for her answer. “Ta, Molly.” He raised his pint to her in salute and took a sip. 

Sherlock returned with a scotch on the rocks for himself, and pints for everyone else at the table. He had plastered a smile on his face that looked more like a grimace, but he was trying so hard. John felt his heart breaking a little at the effort Sherlock had to put into a casual night at the pub. When he slid in beside John, and looked at him, the look in his eyes was questioning, asking John if he was doing good enough. In answer, John slid his arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled him close to him - he didn’t care if the whole pub was watching - and kissed his cheek, “I love you, you know, you silly bugger.” 

Sherlock leaned his body into John, seeking the comfort John always brought him, and John squeezed him hard round his thin waist. Across the table, Greg and Molly inched almost imperceptibly closer to each other, and suddenly, all four of them were smiling and talking, and John felt Sherlock finally start to relax. His smile became less fixed, especially after he went back for another scotch, and then a gin and tonic, and then another gin and tonic. John wondered at some point whether Sherlock was testing his theory about alcohol not affecting him by getting rip roaring drunk.

***

By the time they decided to call it a night, everyone had had plenty more than the two pints John had originally suggested, and all four of them were feeling right jolly. They parted outside the pub with hugs all round, even Sherlock, and Greg and Molly went off in the same direction. As John watched them walk away through a misty rain, he saw Molly lean into Greg’s side and his arm go round her shoulders. It made John grin. Both of them deserved it.

John turned to walk back towards Baker Street, and took Sherlock’s hand. He was feeling warm and happy, glad this awful case was closed, thrilled their first case back together was such a success, and beside himself that he and Sherlock had actually been able to enjoy a night out with friends as a couple. He looked up at Sherlock, who was a bit red in the cheeks, and walking with slightly less purpose than he normally did, and smiled, “No effect, eh? I beg to differ.”

Sherlock looked imperiously down at John, and flipped his collar up, “I have no idea what you’re on about.”

“Course you don’t.” John laughed and swung their clasped hands back and forth. They walked along like that for several blocks, just silently holding hands. Finally John said, “I had fun tonight. I know you probably didn’t. But maybe, the more we do things like that...you might. I hope you will. You know, I owe Greg a lot. He...he helped me get over you, what happened. He’s my best mate - besides you, of course. He’s a wonderful guy, and he wants to be your friend.”

“John, if it makes you happy, I will be friends with even Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled that smile where only half of his mouth went up, and John laughed out loud. Sherlock laughed, too, and squeezed John’s hand, “Ah, look, we’re home.”

John dug his keys out of his coat pocket, and put the door key up to the lock, and as he did so, Sherlock suddenly slithered up behind him, his breath hot and smelling of alcohol, and put his lips to John’s ear, “Do hurry and open the door, John. I believe perhaps you’re right, the gin has gone to my head a bit.” 

John fumbled with the keys as Sherlock’s lips closed around his earlobe and his arms went around John’s hips. John shivered, not from the cold, and breathed out, “Ah, Sherlock, stop, I can’t open the door when you’re doing that.”

“Doing what, John?” Sherlock murmured, his mouth now on John’s neck behind his ear. His right hand had moved inside John’s coat somehow, his fingers beginning to carefully undo John’s belt buckle. Sherlock’s hand moving over his stomach were slow and attentive, his thumb rubbing over John’s shirt in little circles, and his fingers inching downward with gentle pressure.

John groaned, “Stop.it. Christ, Sherlock. I’ll never get the door open like this.”

“Oh, for goodness sake, John. Here, let me do it.” Sherlock withdrew his arm from John’s coat, pushed John’s hand out of the way, opened the door briskly, and shoved John inside. As he shut the door, he spun around and pushed John roughly up against the wall, his gloved hands sliding into John’s hair, and put his mouth around John’s bottom lip, drawing it out and biting it before letting it go. He ran his tongue along John’s jaw up to his earlobe, making John’s breath go ragged, drew it into his mouth and nibbled, and whispered, in a voice three octaves deeper than usual, “I have been waiting four hours to do that, John.”

John grinned, his head buzzing with drink and with Sherlock, and feeling like he must be physically glowing from the heat in his belly. “Yeah? What else have you been waiting to do?”

Sherlock hummed, “Oh. All sorts of things…” and ran his hands slowly down John’s neck and shoulders, pushing his coat off as he went, nuzzling his nose into John’s neck, licking his throat. His tongue felt like fire on John’s cold skin. It felt so good, and his head was still foggy enough with drink, that John would have been totally willing to just go for it right there in the entry hall, Mrs. Hudson be damned, but Sherlock winked and took John’s hands, pulling him towards the steps. John’s coat was still on the floor.

They barely made it in the door of the flat; Sherlock pulling John’s face to his while they were still walking, twirling his tongue into John’s mouth, deftly undoing the buttons of John’s shirt with long, cold fingers, and slamming him up against the closed door. He was kissing John wildly, sucking on his lips and breathing hot gin-scented breath into John’s mouth, his fingers tracing the outline of John’s ears and the back of his neck, across the tops of his shoulder blades, before grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him harder against the door. John could barely stand, he was so drunk and giddy with Sherlock kissing him so hungrily.

He felt like his legs were made of water, and his head was swimming as he pushed Sherlock’s coat off him and it crumpled heavily on floor. Sherlock stumbled backwards over his coat, pulling John with him, knocking the coffee table aside, the morning’s coffee mugs sloshing over, both of them tumbling over the arm of the sofa. John landed on top of Sherlock, hips in between his thighs, his face in his chest, and he pushed himself up to look at Sherlock, arms straight on either side of Sherlock’s head. They were both laughing riotously, Sherlock’s head was thrown back, and his arm was clutching the back of the sofa to hold himself there.

“Sherlock. I do believe you’re a little drunk.” John’s voice was breathless and unsteady, as Sherlock finished unbuttoning his shirt and slid his arms inside and around John’s back. John felt like their skin was electric

“John. I do believe you’re a little turned on.” Sherlock gave John a sly smile, and reached one hand down from John’s back, pressing his palm up against John’s erect cock through his trousers. John gasped and fell forward, pressing against Sherlock’s chest. Christ, he couldn’t believe how quickly and powerfully Sherlock could turn him on. He’d never met anyone who had this effect on him. He thought Sherlock could probably have made him come just by talking to him. He made a mental note to try that sometime.

“Good...deduction...Sherlock,” he panted out, rolling to the right, so he was only supporting himself with one hand, and pushed his left hand up under Sherlock’s shirt hem, wanting more contact with his bare skin. He tucked his nose under Sherlock’s jaw and took his skin between his teeth. Sherlock hummed with pleasure, and curled one long leg up over John’s back, pressing John down into him.

“Not messing about tonight, are you, love?” John raised his head from Sherlock’s neck and drew the tip of his nose along Sherlock’s cheek, breathing him in, still smelling of cold air and alcohol, mixing with the scent of that spicy soap he never let John use. When their noses touched, John drifted his lips ever so lightly over Sherlock’s, once, twice, over and over, as lightly as he could, sending Sherlock shivering and pressing up, trying to meet John’s mouth, until Sherlock tired of the teasing and with a growl, grasped the back of John’s head and pulled him in for a deep kiss, his lips searingly hot.

John had been waiting for a night like this, when Sherlock wanted to be the one to direct the game, to try something he’d definitely never have let anyone else to do him. Only Sherlock. Just like everything else. John pulled back from the kiss, holding Sherlock’s bottom lip in his mouth for a moment before letting go, anticipation and arousal coursing over him in waves at what he was about to say. He trailed his fingers down the center of Sherlock’s chest, and said huskily, “Tonight, Sherlock, I want you to...I want...you to…” He didn’t know why he couldn’t say it. He knew he wanted it, but he couldn’t make himself say it. He wasn’t normally the type to shy away from frank sex talk, but about this he felt inexplicably bashful.

Sherlock studied him out of half closed black eyes, his pupils huge, just a ring of golden green around them. There was a high colour on his cheeks. He pulled John’s head down and whispered in his ear, “You want me to fuck you?”

“Ah, god.” John shuddered with pleasure, hearing Sherlock say those words. He felt a rush of heat diffuse through his entire body. Christ, he felt like his blood was on fire. “Yes, yes, Sherlock, that’s what I want.”

Sherlock immediately flipped John off of the sofa, onto the floor, and sprung on top of him like a cat, pinning his arms above his head. They were both still completely clothed, only John’s shirt unbuttoned. Sherlock leaned into John’s neck and pressed his nose and lips to John’s skin, and purred, “Are you sure, John? You’ve never done that before. It could be very...intense...for you.” He raised his head and considered John with a very Sherlockian stare, waiting.

John swallowed hard, shifting his eyes away from Sherlock’s. It certainly wasn’t anything he ever thought he’d be doing with anyone, ever. And he was comfortable being the more dominant personality in bed; he always had been with girlfriends, and he was used to it. But he’d been thinking about it over the past weeks, and he felt like it was a necessary part of their belonging to each other. He needed to allow Sherlock to take control of him like that; to not be the subservient one, as he’d always been during any of his sexual experiences until John. But it came naturally to him, and Sherlock liked it, which reflected the rest of their life together.

John had always been the one steering the ship. He did the shopping, paid the bills, his blog got them most of their cases, and while people who didn’t know them well often thought that John kowtowed to Sherlock, both of them knew that was hardly ever true. In reality, Sherlock was unusually deferential to John, even more so since he’d returned. It was his way of apologizing, for leaving John out of the last two years, for putting John through all that he went through. And now, John needed to give himself to Sherlock, to let Sherlock be the one with the upper hand. And, if John was honest with himself, the thought turned him on beyond all reason. It also made him oddly nervous. He felt like a teenager knowing they were about to have sex for the very first time, both thrilled and terrified.

He breathed out hard through his nose and nodded. “I know. I want to.” He met Sherlock’s eyes, hoping he didn’t look as apprehensive as he was feeling.

The side of Sherlock’s mouth ticked up into a wicked smile. “So do I, John.” He kissed John slowly, sweeping his tongue gently over the insides of John’s lips, and then jumped backwards quickly to standing, and offered John his hand, “Bedroom.” 

As John took his hand, Sherlock pulled him up close, and they kissed and stumbled their way into the bedroom. John went to lay on the bed, but Sherlock pulled on his hands, keeping him standing in the middle of the floor, and said, “No, John, stand right there.” He stood back from John, his eyes a soft golden grey, and softly closed the door. He reached out and touched John’s face tenderly, brushing his fingertips down John’s neck, and fingering his collar. “Take your shirt off, John.”

Sherlock’s eyes followed John’s every movement as he pulled his sleeves down over his arms and dropped his shirt on the floor. Then Sherlock stepped forward and ran his hands slowly up John’s chest, over his shoulders, and down his back. He kissed John’s shoulder gently, talking against his goose pimpled skin, “You are so lovely, John. You’ve no idea.” His lips lingered on John’s skin for a long moment. John was bursting, wanting to grab Sherlock, throw him on the bed, and shag the hell out of him, but he was committed to letting Sherlock run the show tonight, so he breathed in deeply and forced himself to just stand there, since that was clearly what Sherlock wanted. Sherlock stepped back again, and murmured, “Now your trousers.”

Wordlessly, John finished unbuttoning his jeans, and stepped out of them. Sherlock nodded at John’s pants, and he followed directions, pushing them off on the floor as well. Sherlock smiled at him, one eyebrow arching, and stepped forward, running his hands excruciatingly slowly over John’s whole body. John stood there, shivering, both with arousal and with chill, feeling as if he were being studied and he wasn’t allowed to participate.

Sherlock finally drew back, still gazing at John, his eyes now black blue, gleaming in the lamplight coming in the window. “I love your body, John. So strong. So...solid.” He dragged his fingertips down John’s chest, over his stomach, and hipbones. John groaned, desperately wanting to touch Sherlock in return, to hold him, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t have let him at that moment. His face was burning, absolutely scalding hot, and his belly was tight and hot, but he was shivering and quaking with anticipation as he stood there, Sherlock watching him intensely.

“Are you ready, John?” Sherlock’s voice was low and dangerous. He stepped close to John, their bodies barely touching, breathing slow and steady, the exact opposite of John’s ragged, desperate noises. 

John couldn’t even conjure up the words at this point. He was so turned on, and also nervous, cold, hot...he was falling to pieces. So he just swallowed and nodded, and Sherlock finally pushed him onto the bed. Sherlock silently undressed himself, dropping his clothes to the floor almost methodically, never breaking eye contact with John. The intensity of this night was making John feel like he couldn’t breathe. 

Finally, naked, Sherlock crawled on top of John, and as he did, he took John’s cock in his hand. John moaned shudderingly, the feeling of finally having skin to skin contact, after so many minutes of expectation, overwhelming. His cock jumped in Sherlock’s fingers, his whole body quaking and writhing. He could hear himself crying out loudly, whimpering and moaning, and he knew he should quiet down for Mrs. Hudson’s sake, but he couldn’t. The sensation of what was happening now, and the anticipation of what was to come was just too much.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock was stroking him now, so gently, so tenderly, and brushing his nose and mouth against John’s face and neck, “You are a marvel. I never wanted anyone before you. And I want you all the time, every second. I wanted you the moment we met. And every day since.” Sherlock’s voice was adoring, luxuriating on every syllable, making love to John with his words.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock,” John’s words were chopped and breathless. He could barely make intelligible words. “Please. I can’t take anymore. Please, just…please.”

“Okay, love. Okay.” It was the first time Sherlock had ever used that term talking to John, and the tenderness of it sent his heart thrumming even harder. The room was spinning, his head was spinning. He closed his eyes.

John felt Sherlock lean over and get the lube out of the drawer, then Sherlock was gently pushing a pillow under John’s bum, and bending his knees, his slick fingers gliding under John. He kissed John’s mouth gently, and then whispered against his lips, “I cannot wait to be inside you.”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s back, and crushed his mouth to Sherlock’s, licking inside Sherlock’s mouth with desperation. He felt Sherlock’s finger sliding into him and he bucked up, his cock pulsing, his fingers clawing into Sherlock’s back. “Ah, fuck, Sherlock! That’s, ah...that’s so good...oh, fuck, fuck...”

Sherlock slid a second finger inside, then a third. His fingers moved up and back, up and back, finding a rhythm. John felt like he was going to come just from this. He wasn’t even able to kiss Sherlock anymore, he was bucking and thrashing so madly. He felt like his body was completely out of his control, his heart was thumping out of his chest, and he felt the tightening beginning in his lower belly, and knew he was very, very close. 

Sherlock must have realized how close John was, because he abruptly took his fingers out, and slid his hands up the back of John’s thighs, bending his legs on either side of Sherlock’s waist. John felt the head of Sherlock’s cock up against him, and lube dribbling down onto both of them, and he felt a rush of arousal tear up from his groin to his head, making him feel faint. He grabbed the headboard of the bed as Sherlock pushed into him fully, his hands gripping the outside of John’s thighs. 

He’d never felt anything like this. It was astonishing. He felt himself pushing down, meeting Sherlock’s rhythm, wanting him deeper inside him. He tightened his muscles around Sherlock, and Sherlock gasped and dug his fingers into John’s thighs. 

“Ah, Christ, Sherlock. Harder, harder, god, oh, god…” John couldn’t even control the words coming out of his mouth. All he could feel was Sherlock inside him and Sherlock’s hands on him, now running down the front of his thighs, and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck. Sherlock’s hands were running up his stomach, his knees were bent against Sherlock’s shoulders, and then there was Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth and Sherlock was holding his hands against the headboard, and it was just Sherlock, Sherlock, filling him, on top of him, everywhere, Sherlock taking up the whole world.

“Oh, John. You’re beautiful like this. I’ve never seen you like this, and you’re so beautiful,” Sherlock’s voice was shaking, breathless. His eyes were almost violet, looking down at John with so much love.

“Sherlock, oh, god, I’m…” John couldn’t finish before he was coming, his come pulsing all over his stomach and Sherlock’s stomach, and he was shaking from head to toe and shouting out, and then Sherlock was coming inside him, gasping and moaning, and it was too much and too wondrously fantastic and suddenly John felt hot tears streaming down the sides of his face.

Sherlock kissed John so gently, still inside of him, lying on top of him, and ran his fingers down John’s cheek. “I love you, John.”

John could barely speak, but he choked out, voice thick with tears, “I love you so much, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled off of John, and gathered him in his arms. John had rarely in his life felt such powerful emotions coursing through him. In Afghanistan a few times, then when he saw Sherlock perched on the roof at St. Bart’s, Sherlock’s funeral, when he saw Sherlock standing in that cafe. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. His whole world was just Sherlock. He couldn’t stop crying. 

Sherlock just silently held him. John wrapped his left arm across Sherlock’s chest and buried his face in Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock stroked his back gently, reached down and pulled the cover up over them. 

Finally, after what felt like hours, Sherlock said, “Are you okay, John?”

John raised his head, and put his hand to Sherlock’s face, “I have never been more okay, Sherlock. You’re alive, and we belong to each other properly, the way we always should have been, and I’m just a bit gobsmacked by it all right now. But, I’m okay. More than okay. I’m brilliant.” He touched his lips sleepily to Sherlock’s, and laid his head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock gave him a squeeze, touching his lips to the top of John’s head. John felt himself getting closer to sleep, and he snuggled closer to Sherlock, not wanting any space between them at all. He murmured, “You can do that to me any time, Sherlock. I’m all yours.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a long time, but just as John was falling asleep, he heard Sherlock say softly, “I’ve always been all yours, John. Always.”


End file.
